Look, I have to admit that sometime in the third hour of A Screaming Man, I drifted off somewhat. The story of an African pool attendant who loses his job: as with every film in the competition, it was beautifully shot, with aching and expert mise en scène, and as slow as a snail pushing a goddamn glacier.

There are a dozen films like this in the competition, all of them important moments in their national cinema's history. Every morning people queue for them, their passes flapping on their chest, the lines snaking out in the forecourt of the Palais des Festivals, all waiting to get in to see what they're thinking in Moldova/Kyrgyzstan/Curaçao/Brhtyfgtyrtp these days.