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Following in the tradition of their annual music critic’s poll, The Village Voice has published their fourth year-end survey of movie reviewers.  If there’s one thing to be said for what’s on the mind of the seventy-eight assembled scriveners as critics, we are one big fulmination nation. Here’s my ballot.

A first quick read of the assembly of year-end commentary made me think that I might not be angry enough for this job, or angry enough that others have opinions that may differ with mine. A second pass revealed several gems of analysis, such as Slate’s David Edelstein on the year’s surfeit of narration.  The Voice’s editors invite any and all commentary from those responding. The level of intensity is high. Slate also has an extensive year-end edition of their “Movie Club,” featuring Edelstein, Roger Ebert, A. O. Scott and Sarah Kerr.

I’d been looking forward to comments on Gangs of New York by my colleague, Cinema Scope publisher and editor Mark Peranson and, unlike the movie, his agitpop did not disappoint. “A special ‘Oh, the Humanity’ award for most species combined in one breathing organism goes to Gangs of New York, the best Western since Unforgiven, the best Dickensian Western, well, ever, and an achievement it aspires to quite consciously with its capping shot of the Twin Towers: The Last Picture of the 20^th Century. After a while I stopped trying to catch the reference points—e.g., after the first Gone With the Wind pullback, the fireworks from Leos Carax’s Les Amants du Pont Neuf, the set-ups from Once Upon a Time in America, Lean’s Oliver Twist and The Warriors, Vermeer’s “View of Delft,” the reveal from The Ladies Man, Captain Blood, blood and more blood!”

A perfect summation of what he adored about Scorsese’s sound and fury and one of the things I most detested about it: the history of art and cinema reduced a stultifying series of flash cards designed to brandish Scorsese’s taste, ever the altar boy to Culture. Give me a nimble pop vulgarian like Baz Luhrmann, or at least until he inevitably outlives his moment of cultural relevance as well.

When I compiled my massive year-end list last week, I tried to work from memory instead of compiling an exhaustive list. Silly me. Here are a few more worthy 2002 releases.

ABC Africa, Abbas Kiarostami. DV doc that captures the pain, but also the humanity, of children in Africa who are dying of AIDS.

Biggie and Tupac, Nick Broomfield. Hardcore investigative reporting about the seeming cover-up of the murders of rappers Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, from an increasingly fearless filmmaker.

The Cat’s Meow, Peter Bogdanovich. Sturdy period murder mystery shines when the 20-year-old Kirsten Dunst convinces as a 28-year-old historical figure.

CQ, Roman Coppola.  Loving movie love, every minute of it.

Daughter From Danang, Gail Dolgin, Vicente Franco.

Derrida, Kirby Dick, Amy Ziering Kofman. A sweet and playful documentary in which the French philosopher illuminates his way of thinking by challenging the filmmakers as the film is being made.

How to Draw a Bunny, John W. Walter. Loopy, Sundance-honored documentary about the late conceptual artist Ray Johnson participates in his style of prankishness.

I’m Going Home, Manoel de Olivera. Engaging mediation on mortality with Michel Piccoli, who is wonderful.

Insomnia.

Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India, Ashutosh Gowariker. The most unlikely Bollywood premise until Kaante, the three-hour musical remake of Reservoir Dogs that’s out now: Would you believe cricket and colonialism?

Last Orders, Fred Schepisi. Ensemble drama directed with quiet mastery.

The Sleepy Time Gal, Christopher Munch. Jacqueline Bisset is heartbreaking.

Spy Kids 2: The Island of Lost Dreams, Robert Rodriguez. Dizzy, soaring kids’ stuff from the most enthusiastic (and imaginative) of today’s High Definition practitioners.

The Trials of Henry Kissinger, Eugene Jarecki. Making the case.

Wendigo, Larry Fessenden’s usual canny class critique done up as an unusually atmospheric horror entry.

Plus a few words with Adrien Brody about my pick for favorite film of the year, Roman Polanski’s The Pianist.

DVD of the week: Think of a world where crimes could be stopped before they’re committed: there’s homeland security for you. In Steven Spielberg’s second dystopian science-fiction tale in a row, Tom Cruise plays John Anderton, head of the D.C. “Department of Pre-Crime,” which has prevented homicides for six years through the exploitation of the “Pre-Cogs,” a mysterious trio of seers that can predict the future; or at least one dark part of it. Samantha Morton plays the most gifted, and she remains one of the great actors of her generation.

The greatest strength of Minority Report is that it elaborates Philip K. Dick’s seething paranoia with science fiction’s genre conventions, in order to reflect disturbing social themes that are relevant today—privacy, the effects of drug abuse on successive generations, the adult nightmares of the abused, and a misguided belief that law enforcement, led by flawed humans, can do no wrong. Spielberg’s made a dark but brisk Hitchcock-style wrong-man murder mystery from the ground up, rather than indulging in mere pastiche.

As a director and studio mogul, he was a latecomer to the DVD medium, waiting until enough households had the players to make it worth his economic while. (Witness the Back to the Future trilogy, only just in stores this past month.) Spielberg’s well-known enthusiasm comes through in interview supplements to Minority Report, although he’s not yet a believer in the director’s commentary. The DreamWorks double-disk set preserves the movie in its 146-minute glory, leading to still more of the conversations I’ve been overhearing for months, with every schmuck with an iBook is raring to end the film when Spielberg deviates from Dick’s chilly ending for a more optimistic, Spielbergian one. The film’s technical and design elements are deconstructed at mind-numbing duration. Movie, please.

E-me: Do lists tell you more about the year in movies or about the person who compiled the list?