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.

Roy Andersson closes out (for now) his absurdist trilogy on 'what it's like to be a human being' with another masterfully crafted series of deadpan, drip-dried, comedy vignettes. Armed with a characteristic jet black wit; the odd unexpected hook to the stomach; and an impeccable eye for cinematic detail; the 71 year old director has found a warm defiant humanity amdst all that overcast Scandinavian gloom. 

We open, as they do in that part of the world, with a few short gags about death. We see a daft looking fella take in a natural history exhibit; and a canteen deciding what to do with a dead man's food; before happening upon our two downtrodden leads. Sam and Jonathon (Nils Westblom & Holger Anderson respectfully) are a pair of traveling joke shop salesmen who stumble about town, flogging their wares. They appear relatively chuffed with their current haul, all things considered, but no one else in town seems to feel the same.

This act provides a point of focus from scene to scene but Andersson's films have always been more of a variety show. We get a tremendous musical bar scene in 1943; a hands-on dance instructor groping one of her troupe;  and a cavalry filled cafe as prince Charles XII heads off to war. We might laugh at, instead of with, these miserable souls, but the real shake of watching this film is that, like it or not, you see yourself up there too. 

Anderson hones a particular brand of humour which seems both ornate and absurd. Had they been born on that particularly chilly peninsula, it's the sort of stuff you might expect the Pythons to have done. However, unlike the Python's (all due respect), Anderson happens to be a top level aestheticist too. His lovingly hand crafted sets express a mad, tragic gloom. His colour palette recalls over-boiled cabbage and his cast look like they've never seen a warm sunny day. 

It's all counterpointed beautifully to the marching tones of Glory Glory Hallelujah. It's a simple and effective underscore, which plays throughout, but Andersson uses it in a way to provide the film's last blow. Without giving too much away, the director brazenly holds a mirror up to any lingering colonialist guilt but also to those who remain blissfully ignorant to it. The image alone is an absolute jaw-dropper; but the sweep from humour to depravity is utterly profound.

The director has managed just 6 feature films in the last 45 years but he assured us this week that, thankfully, Pigeon will not be the last. With this trilogy he has shown a standard of technique and artistry which is rarely seen on screen. Funny; life affirming; tragic; sublime. In fewer words: A masterpiece. The Venice Film Festival's Golden Lion might have just turned a snotty shade of green.