Any story about Jack the Ripper is all right by me. But conflating it with the London Matchstick Workers Strike of 1888 is true fiction.
Playwright Maggie Lou Rader tries her damnedest to put these two historic events into the same frame in this world premiere of Let. Her. Rip, now on stage at Houston’s Stages theater, but the true facts get squeezed to bursting. Yes, these three women “matchgirls” (Rachel Omotoso as Nana; Melissa Pritchett as Liza; Skyler Sinclair as Em) might have known the women who were so brutally mutilated in late August through November in the slums of Whitechapel, 1888, but if Rader had delved a bit deeper, she might have smoothed out the rough edges and given her play a more accurate touch.
The Industrial Revolution, while it changed the world forever, wasn’t so nice to those who had to work in the hellish new factories. Something so simple as making matches became toxic to the impoverished women – and a few men – who toiled with the white phosphorus fumes that slowly destroyed their jaws, the dreaded “phossy jaw.” If first you hadn’t lost your teeth, you would eventually lose your jaw bone. Disfigurement caused you to lose your job, then your life.
The women in the Spitalfields tenement house have had enough. Not only must they pay for the glue to make the match boxes, they have to buy their own string to tie up the 12 packages of 100 matches per box. They had to take their lunch at the same table where they slaved, where the deadly fumes lingered. They labored 14-hour days and were often subject to a foreman’s inopportune advances or random fines levied which were deducted from their meager wages. Progress for most indigent workers during the latter part of the 19th century was utterly degrading – and ultimately deadly.
In a bold unprecedented move, the matchstick girls went on strike, and through protest marches, newspaper exposés detailing their unhealthy conditions and pitiable pay, and a march on Parliament, the owners capitulated. They knew the power of bad press. The workers demanded better wages and somewhat better health conditions in the Bryant and May factory in Bow, London. The strike was successful, and would lead to more organized unions throughout Britain. It was a historic, decisive moment in union history. The “white slaves” were saved, vindicated, and triumphant.
That’s when the evil shadow of Jack the Ripper makes his appearance in Rader’s drama, upending the feminist unity among the three women. The murders inside the rookery of London’’s East End, described at the time as the most dangerous area of the city, is history’s coldest criminal case. It has never been solved. Modern forensics didn’t exist in 1888, nor did fingerprint evidence. Shoddy police work, anti-Semitism and rabid xenophobia all muddied the waters. Later, most of the Scotland Yard evidence was destroyed in the London Blitz. We’re still left with guesses and wild theories buried in theories. We might never know who was the Ripper.
Em (Sinclair) is the smart one of the trio, she knows French and can read and write, organizing the protests and writing the women’s pamphlets under an assumed name. Liza is the Mistress Quickly character: crude, bold, brash, foul-mouthed. Nana (Omotosa) is the outsider: illiterate and Black, unseen and defenseless. But they are compatriots, squabbling and always pricking at each other’s most vulnerable faults. Nana will take to prostitution to help pay for her dying mother who was sacked at the factory; Liza farts and vomits like the life force she is; and Em, no matter her earnest commitment to the cause, succumbs to drink and finally to Jack’s lethal knife.
Rader overplays the female empowerment, anachronistically peppered with “thumbs up” gestures and a whole lot of f-bombs. “Bloody” would have been more shocking in Victorian England at the time. But the camaraderie among them is neatly portrayed if not quite always believable. Theirs is a sisterhood, held together by poverty, a life without prospect, and fleeting moments of joy. Three disparate characters in search of a cohesive plot.
All three actors strongly hold the stage at various moments. Omotosa supplies quiet strength and commitment; Sinclair gives us stubborn resourcefulness and a lively drunk scene; and Pritchett bowls us over with her earthy unedited bawd.
The one-set boarding house hovel is neatly depicted by Liz Freese with its rough wood floor, dingy windows, small stove, and moldy walls. In a glorious touch to London’s toxic “fog,” a trench of coal rings the stage. Christina R. Giannelli’s supple lighting displays gaslit corners or sunlight filtering through grime. Leah Smith’s costumes showcase Victorian mutton sleeves and one all-purpose hat (that all three share) that Eliza Doolittle would be proud to wear at her Covent Garden flower stall.
There’s also a female chorus, under music director Alli Villines, whose protest songs play under the quick scene changes. Derek Charles Livingston’s direction is forceful and spot-on, allowing these actors to go for broke but not too overboard.
As one more variation on all the infamous Jack the Ripper’s tales of horror, Rader’s drama adds a distaff take to the never-ending suppositions. It’s no more true than most of them – and the ending is pure make-believe – but the women’s power, heart, and earnest sisterhood on display ring true and fearless.
Let. Her. Rip. continues through June 22 at 7:30 p.m. Wednesdays through Saturdays; and 2:30 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays at Stages, 800 Rosine. For more information, call 713-527-0123 or visit stageshouston.com. $59-$89.
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2025.
