The glass pane almost ripples

Clara Kanter, Alastair White, and David Mazower's The Drowning Shore (2020) is a gorgeous act of ghosts and limits and liminal remembrance, a 14-minute cantata in Scots and Yiddish reaching through water and time to speak of marginalized languages and imperial borders and once again the love between two women that is the heart of Sholem Asch's God of Vengeance, the playwright's great-great-granddaughter now the performer in her bird-of-paradise brilliance, in ancestral tartan, in frum-black silk that made me think, intended or not, of Hanna Rovina's Leye in The Dybbuk, crumbling earth between her fingers, writing holy letters on the air. I managed to watch it this afternoon for its streaming premiere, no less haunted for being digital. I will have to check out the rest of Compass Presents' Oracles in Sepia if they are anything like as good as this one. In the meantime, I commend it highly to your attention.