You can always spot the moment when these great festivals lose their steam. The hustle bustle roles on to greener pastures as the business side of things comes to an end. Those who keep track of such things note that at Venice this tends to happen a little earlier than elsewhere.

This festival is the oldest in the world, it's credited for having shown its pretenders exactly how it's done, and yet Venice has slipped from the rankings in recent times, and this is largely down to the time of year it takes place. It might seem, at times, that the Academy Awards are a 365 day affair. Indeed, L.A.'s most coveted envelopes are usually still waiting to be licked when news of "the next Little Miss Sunshine" is heard from Sundance. However, by the time the movie world descends on the Lido, things are genuinely about to heat up. 

Toronto, Telluride and, most recently, New York have become robust contenders for awards season's hottest titles but it's been Venice's genteel principles which have held it back. Putting last year's opener- and subsequent Oscar smash- Gravity to one side, the commercialism of other top brass festivals is really yet to take off. It's a problem for the old dame, no doubt about it, and yet for punters and critics at least, it remains this festival's greatest charm. The commercial side simply pales in comparison to what goes on in other parts of the world and the short ques and manageable program are testament to that. It's because of all this that Venice stands apart but,as evidence suggests, it's the exact same reason why it's losing its draw.

Keaton and Norton in Birdman

Even without a cathartic standout moment this year, the standard has been strong. Birdman slayed critics for all the right reasons and, despite leaving empty handed here on Saturday night, will surely glide into awards season feeling battle hardened and tall. 99 homes showed us that Ramin Bahrani still has a few more gears to climb; Hungry Hearts subverted our indie expectations and, somewhat controversially, went home with both of the acting gongs. The Italians examined politics, the mafia and mamas, as they tend to do, and The Look of Silence (winner of the Grand Jury prize) confirmed that director/monk Joshua Oppenheimer is taking documentary making into pastures unknown. Some of these will surely kit out their mantelpieces in the coming months and yet the festival's big winner- and for what it's worth, the best that this writer has seen- will probably not get a look in in at all.

To say that Roy Andersson's A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence was the most uplifting picture in competition says a lot about what we've seen this past week. It's a masterpiece of absurdist comedy which packs plenty of laughs to go with its human tenderness and monstrous hammer blow at the end. A fine winner if ever there was one, but the organizers must still be stewing over the titles which didn't show. Eyelashes are alleged to have been fluttered in the direction of David Fincher (Gone Girl) and Paul Thomas Anderson in the last few months. PTA picked up best director here two years ago for The Master so it must have been a prickly one to swallow for the selection committee to see Inherent Vice join Fincher and co at New York's ever growing Autumn contender.

Andersson picks up the Golden Lion (Reuters: Tony Gentile)

With the bloated whale that is Toronto, alongside Telluride and now New York, the early Autumn market has become increasingly competitive in recent years and if it is to keep its status, this godfather (apologies) of the festival circuit will surely need to up its game. This means a greater emphasis on commerce; on markets; and perhaps a bigger scale too. This would surely mean a move to a new home away from the decadence of the Lido's Palazzo Del Cinema and Excelsior hotel. Necessary, for sure, but no doubt a terrible shame.

These surroundings, all things considered, remain heavy with class. Compared to the dog-eat-dog queue system and cavernous screening rooms in Cannes, the theaters here are simply stunning; the press rooms and conference halls too. Movie stars glide off shiny Vapparettos as clammy journalists with little to no Italian (guilty) shuffle awkwardly next to pristine suited men. They say the city's sinking but if it's bourgeois spectacle you're after, this grand event still stands on its own. Cannes strives on commercialism and controversy just as much as its caliber; Berlin prides itself on a more populist setup and scale; but this place has managed to hold onto something which the cream of movieland seems to have forgotten: Its principles.

Morning press screening at the Salle Grande

The city holds a place in the cinematic pantheon for a number of reasons. Indeed, many film makers have found strange things in its endless narrow alleyways and chalky blue canals- Dirk Bogarde flaking on the beach in Visconti's Death in Venice; Donald Sutherland losing his marbles in Roeg's Don't Look Now or, for readers of a certain age, a particularly spooky level of Tomb Raider 2. The beauty of such Unesco quilted surroundings almost borders on the tedious at times. Stanley Kubrick once wrote that making a film can be like trying to write War and Peace in a bumper car in an amusement park. You feel that even the most bog-standard photographer would capture something splendid under similar circumstances here. 

Will these dignified old school aesthetics be enough to keep em coming? Or is the old dog just not cut out for such new tricks? Time, of course, will tell, but we won't be barging the life-rafts just yet.

Lets take a moment and think back to Venice 2003 and we find a young director from Mexico with his first feature in the English language. It's a gloomy examination of human suffering titled 21 Grams. Skip forward to today and we're back on the Lido. In the time which passed, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu has become one of the most respected directors in world cinema and, up until this week, his films have followed 21 Grams' same gloomy line. However, if the director’s career to this point has played to the bleak tones of a sinking Titanic quintet, his latest outing walks to the brash beat of free flowing jazz.

Birdman stars Michael Keaton as Rikkan Thomson; a goofy and deranged version of Keaton himself. Rikkan is a franchise actor of a certain age who hopes to reclaim artistic clout by writing, starring and directing in a Broadway play. We find him pouring his heart, soul and wallet into the production but of course, it’s driving him mad. The trope might sound a touch cliche, but what separates Birdman’s story arc from others which have come before is that our hero is haunted by the superhero role he's trying to leave behind. Voices are heard; powers envisioned; and everyone around him helps to twist the psychological knife.

Ed Norton lays waste to all sorts of scenery as one of those talented thesp-with-integrity types. Emma Stone does the rehab daughter; Zach Galifianakis does the long suffering agent; Andrea Riseborough does the want-away lover; each playing their respective parts in Keaton’s mental demise. 

An wild marvel of raw technical achievement; the film plays out entirely within the confines of the play’s production and, roughly, within the confines of the theatre itself. The setting is uncomfortably tight and claustrophobic, and it’s in these confines that master cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki plays his greatest trick card. 

There are some flashy Saul Bass looking credits at the beginning and a brief dream sequence late on but, apart from that, this 119m film is presented as one single flowing take. There’s a bit of scene stitching afoot- some good, some bad- but for a full-on jarring single-shot experience, Birdman emphatically pulls it off. Cameras float through windows in an otherworldly fashion, the story arc loosely jumping and skipping through time.

Add to all that the surrealist lighting; the flawless choreography; and the rattle of Antonio Sanchez' jazz drum score and you have a film not just of visual sophistication, but a remarkably singular experience too. 

In 2003 this fine director gave us a film with its eyes pointed down. 

He has returned this week with a boot through the saloon door. Big swingin' dick and all.