“Soul,” if you allow it metatextual leeway, shows Pixar wrestling with questions becoming of the 25-year-old studio’s priorities and standards. But taken on its own terms, it’s also a serviceable, pretty funny, slightly ostentatious movie concerned with some of the most spiritual concepts a movie can possibly concern itself with.

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.

Jazzy melodies underscore a montage of characters embarking the regal ocean liner Queen Mary 2 early in Steven Soderbergh’s newest movie, “Let Them All Talk,” and you can owe it to the presence of acting royalty Meryl Streep confidently striding through the ship’s spacious confines if you find yourself thinking back to images of a suave George Clooney surveying the Bellagio ahead of an ambitious heist in “Ocean’s 11.” “Let Them All Talk” is also a heist movie of sorts, although one in which the thing to be heisted isn’t gold bricks or poker chips but the minutiae of ambiguous agendas.

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?