Words carry a heavy burden in Paul Greengrass’s shaky new pseudo-Western “News of the World.” They can bring communities together for the possibility of shared knowledge, and they can forge bonds where bonds aren’t expected to be forged. They can also spread fear and prejudice, deliver a threat as precursor to bloodshed. The movie understands these truths as well as a simpler one: When Tom Hanks speaks, you listen. And it synergizes them for a picture that is – in its best, rarest, unfussiest stretches – gently intuitive about the world-changing potential of sharing stories and communication.

Dance can be a most liberating (and cinematic) form of self-expression, as a large swath of 2020’s better films have attested to. In Steve McQueen’s evocative “Lovers Rock,” young Black people groove and jive to the sultry step of their souls. In Levan Akin’s devastating “And Then We Danced,” an aspiring Georgian dancer’s dream of joining the national troupe gives him purpose. In Fernandro Frías’s melancholy “I’m No Longer Here,” a Mexican teenager relies on cumbia to sustain his identity after he’s forced to flee across the U.S.-Mexico border. Dance is vital to Ekwa Msangi’s “Farewell Amor” as well.

What the highly effective “Anything for Jackson” proves is that, for all his time in Christmasmovieland, Justin Dyck clearly found time to remain versed in the language of modern horror. This is a small-scale tale of Satanic suspense that finds success in how self-aware it is. Two committed lead performances anchor the movie, and the range they’re asked to cover (and cover it they do) is wonderfully summed up with this line: “We have to keep up appearances.”

Comedy may be the best lens through which to experience Fincher’s newest movie, “Mank”—a phantasmal and fantastically entertaining work of deep irony, deeper relevance and ever-deepening contradiction that suggests he’s not only embraced his reputation as a storyteller who strives to meet no one’s standards aside from his own, but that he is also ready to weaponize it for his amusement. Ours, too, if we’re willing to humor him.

An earnest portrait of a country and a subtle inquiry into the direction it’s been heading, “Nomadland” shepherds us to snow-capped mountain ranges and dry plains, derelict towns and lonely roads, redwood forests and gulf-stream waters. Traversing these spaces – captured with a necessary sense of majesty – is Frances McDormand’s Fern, and it’s in her that “Nomadland” emphasizes the truth in that American hymn’s most important lyric, as well as its contradiction: This land may be made for you and me, but what about the structures physical and economic raised over more and more of that land? Who are they for?