["Slag" is] quite the dullest evening in town. There are just three women in it, which is a bit of a mistake to begin with since they all speak at a teakettle hiss, making one wish that a male voice were present or that refreshments would soon be served.

Nothing refreshing is served….

Hopping about the stage as though she'd just taken landing lessons from Peter Pan, [Joanne] is not really an advertisement for Fem Lib, unless we want to believe that Mr. Hare sees the Fem Lib crowd as altogether around the bend. Neither is she a sounding-board for provocative, or even mildly original, ideas. She is merely tiresome….

The other two are busy climbing to the roof and falling off (hey, any symbolism there?), playing hilarious practical jokes with collapsing chairs on one another, sucking one another's toes, and entering into sexual relationships…. One of the two becomes pregnant for a time, she says, but we are unable to pay much attention to that because [Joanne] has by this time put on a Ubangi mask and whipped out a toy machine gun.

What is so defeating about the evening is not the inscrutability of its message or even the monotony of its voice-work but the fact that playwright Hare never writes a line that makes you want to listen to the next. He is not even a good tease, there is no come-hither to his prose….