Annie Luján and Veronica Hortigüela in Monks, playing at The Theatre Centre, has picked up word-of-mouth acclaim and a cult following of fans.Audrianna Martin Del Campo/The Theatre Centre
- Title: Monks
- Co-created by: Veronica Hortigüela and Annie Luján
- Venue: The Theatre Centre
- City: Toronto
- Year: Until March 2, 2025
Critic’s Pick
Greetings, Brother Globe Reader, good morrow! Please, stay a while in the monastery, and behold the tale of Monks, the two-person clown show so deliciously imbecilic that it’s on its third presentation in Toronto in less than a year, and, God willing, will enjoy many more Canadian runs to come.
Annie Luján and Veronica Hortigüela’s play, about two balding friars tasked with counting 10 million lentils, won the Patrons’ Pick Award at last year’s Toronto Fringe Festival. Crow’s Theatre then picked it up for a weekend of shows in October, and the brotherhood grew larger, picking up word-of-mouth acclaim and a cult following of fans.
This week, Monks is back for a short run at the Theatre Centre, and, if any Canadian artistic director is doing their job well, this inspired piece of theatre will be programmed into a full season somewhere soon. Monks’ trio of sold-out indie runs has proven that despite (or even because of) this disquieting socio-political moment of tariffs and flailing capitalism, audiences have an appetite for zany, off-the-walls theatre about nothingness and brotherly love.
In their marketing materials, Luján and Hortigüela describe Monks as “a shockingly dumb interactive clown show,” and I won’t disagree – the piece’s premise rests almost entirely on greeting people as Brother Such-and-Such. (My reserved press seat, fittingly, was reserved for Brother Media.)
When we meet the brothers – Luján and Hortigüela, dressed in brown robes, sandals and cheap-looking bald caps – we learn of their dreams of doing nothing. Someday, they tell us, they’ll show us around the monastery, and together, we’ll befriend the brothers’ donkey, frolicking in the field as we watch the clouds go by. A blissful day of zilch.
But first, the brothers have to count lentils. And to their credit, they give that task a fair shot, encouraging the audience to count with them as they toss beans into a gargantuan barrel.
But of course, counting lentils grows boring quite quickly, especially with the tantalizing prospect of doing nothing on the horizon. Before long, the monks reject their sacred work, and all hell breaks loose as the audience is bullied into playing along – you’re unlikely to leave Monks without a handful of lentils, a hunk of peasant bread or a slightly damp head. (Fair warning: You’ll probably get wet, particularly when the brothers get caught in a spray-bottle “storm.”)
If you’ve ever been subjected to an ad hoc skit by a couple of eight-year-olds, you’ll recognize how Monks keeps its audience captive, vaulting the stakes higher and higher until the brothers can’t possibly out-antic themselves.
Case in point: At various points on opening night, Luján and Hortigüela stole an audience member’s iPhone, played plastic recorders with their noses, sang “fa la la la la” on an endless loop and even exposed a bare bum.
On paper, I’m aware Monks sounds like a tiring affair, a noisy, exhausting bacchanal of “look-at-me” gimmicks.
But Monks isn’t like that, not at all. (Believe me: I was skeptical of the show’s buzz before seeing it for myself.) These faux-brothers are trained, masterful clowns, each with the ability to move on from bits before they become overtired. At times, Monks feels like a lawless party, but in reality, it’s been tightly choreographed by Luján and Hortigüela, carefully built to ensure maximum laughs. There’s real craft at play here, and dramaturgical muscles working hard to keep the show moving.
Monks zips by in a too-quick 75 minutes, and ends in a surprisingly poignant place. Throughout the play, Luján and Hortigüela run fast and loose with the notion of spirituality, seemingly poo-pooing the history of monkdom at the centre of their satire. But in Monks‘ final beats, there’s a tonal shift, a moment of real, bleeding pathos that only strengthens the chaos that came before. Any comedian could make a clown show set in a monastery, but only Luján and Hortigüela could make Monks, in all its earnestness and folly.
All theatre critics will tell you about the show they’re glad they saw before it exploded into commercial success. Plenty of my colleagues saw the first-ever Fringe outing of Kim’s Convenience in 2011; others might recall The Drowsy Chaperone in 1999 or ‘Da Kink in My Hair in 2001, all fellow Fringe darlings-turned-cultural phenomena.
Well, I’m calling it now, by the power vested in me as Brother Critic: Monks has the makings of Canadian theatre’s next big thing, destined for greatness far beyond bite-sized indie presentations. Fa la la la la.
In the interest of consistency across all critics’ reviews, The Globe has eliminated its star-rating system in film and theatre to align with coverage of music, books, visual arts and dance. Instead, works of excellence will be noted with a critic’s pick designation across all coverage. (Television reviews, typically based on an incomplete season, are exempt.)
