Brother, are you a theatregoer like me, who somehow never saw Monks in its acclaimed 2024 Toronto Fringe debut — or its award-winning 2025 turn, in which it earned two Dora Award nominations and was named Best New Canadian Work by the Toronto Theatre Critics’ Awards?
If so, Brother Theatregoer, you have a rare chance at Tarragon Theatre to see what the fuss is about – in this show about the even rarer chance that two hyper-imaginative Benedictine monks get, once every five years, to make some noise and raise a little hell.
We, the audience, are visitors to the monks’ sacred, silent domain … but the Abbot who enforces this strict asceticism has gone to town. And when the Abbot’s away, the monks will –
Actually, Brother Reader, the less you know about the detail of the actual show, the better. Like the wine that these brothers pull out and spill everywhere, Monks is strong stuff and difficult not to describe reductively. Moreover, there’s no middle ground on this show: you will either drink deeply, savouring the riot of flavours and feeling the heady intoxication of this potent brew … or you will sputter on its absurdity and silliness, rejecting the improvisational bouquet with an upturned nose.
Whether you end up wasted — or resentful of time wasted — know, Brother, that the two titular monks with their brown cassocks and bald pates (co-creators and directors Veronica Hortigüela and a mustachioed Annie Luján) are truly, madly, and deeply delighted to see you there. And they will work tirelessly during the show’s hour to make you not only feel welcome, but turn you into a part of it.
Brother, there is nothing they won’t say or do to pull you in. This is participatory theatre, and YOU put the “part” in it. These monks have a value proposition — a cherished dream of how you can spend this brief, magical interlude with them — and as they work to deliver on it, they are truly going to spend the time with you.
This means, Brother Exhibitionist and Brother Wallflower, that no matter where you sit in the audience, they’re going to climb into your immediate environs, find you, and engage directly with you. They will ask you to answer questions, follow instructions, keep count, create weather, take various kinds of action … and basically become the show. Probably a full two-thirds of this hilarious show is you, Brothers – ALL of you. You make each night’s show a new thing.
That may appeal to you. That may scare you. Brothers, these two monks found me more than once on the night I went. I sang hymn-like answers to their questions about myself. I played an instrument in their final number. For a moment, I was in their confessional. And every member of the audience has their own list of what they did (or was done to them).
Brother Comedy-lover, this pair of monks forms a deliciously absurd duo. Luján, whom I might call Brother Sidebar, Brother Eyebrow-raise, or Brother Insouciant Banter, or Brother Whip-up-the-crowd, is the mischievous ringleader. The wide-eyed Hortigüela, whom I might call Brother Lentils, Brother Quicker-picker-upper, or Brother Donkey-tamer, channels a sweeter and truly full-bodied silliness. At one point in the show, she flung herself literally under my chair. Luján asked gruffly and drily, “Did you overcommit, Brother?” “Only a little”, was the understated reply as she extracted herself.
Brother, I was searching my porous mind for a comparator for this absurd, extreme show about the quest to make an ultra-special day even more special. The best I can do is this: it’s like the commitment to a wild premise of Goblin Macbeth (in which four goblins stage Shakespeare’s bloodiest tragedy), powered by the clowning energy of Colonial Circus, fused with the interactive chaos of a Second City improv show – all wrapped around two hapless Benedictine monks in the middle ages.
OK, Brother, that kind of sucks as a description.
Bottom line: Monks depicts a hazy, twilight zone world inhabited by two monks and a donkey – with flimsy costuming, low-rent props and do-it-yourself effects, minimalist call-and-response dynamics, and endless sly modern asides. Its goal is to get us engaged in the monks’ work, the actors’ work, and — eventually, they hope — the rewards of this delicious day off.
But periodically … the bells ring, marking the loss of precious time on this most precious of days. Each time, the monks freeze in terror of the ever-closer return of the usual stringent silence.
Brother Subtext, Monks is a show as shapeless as the brown cassocks the monks wear … until just before its end, when it takes a surprising, specific – and many (but not all) will say, deeply satisfying – shape.
Brother Value, Monks is pointless, unapologetic and not just half-assed, but whole-assed silliness … until the brothers find, unexpectedly, a serious undercurrent beneath.
Brother Highbrow, Monks is lo-fi collective clowning … until it turns unexpectedly to collective consciousness-raising.
Brother — the more I say about the show, the more I risk tainting your experience. So if you are a theatregoer like me, who somehow never saw Monks in 2024 or 2025 let me encourage you to go. Make noise, and drink deeply of this one-of-a-kind confection.
Whether it’s worth the hangover is ultimately between you and your Abbot.
Monks plays at Tarragon Theatre’s Extraspace (30 Bridgman Avenue) through November 15, 2026. Approximately one hour, no intermission. Tickets at tarragontheatre.com.
© Scott Sneddon, Sesaya Arts Magazine 2026
