Blog silence has been down to the long days of Cannes. I've seen 16 films, most of them, in one way or another, extraordinary. None was directed by a woman and only two by a non-white director. In my view, the jurors chose easily the best film for the Palme D'Or, for all the blissful invention of Leos Carax's Holy Motors. I heartily recommend Michael Haneke's Amour. It is a mightily controlled, intensely poignant film that draws extraordinary performances from its great, veteran actors.

I wrote a piece about literary adaptations this year, of which there were many. On the Road turned out to be a reverential, pedestrian adaptation of the Kerouac novel, more like reading a dutiful Penguin Classics introduction than experiencing a Benzedrine-fuelled Roman-candle burst through the American night. But it made the adaptation of Pete Dexter's superlative novel The Paperboy look like a work of genius. Everything that was restrained, hinted-at, coolly evoked in the novel burst out vulgarly on to the screen in Lee Daniels' film. Unusually, the audience at the press screening gave in to so-bad-it's-hilarious howls of laughter. Some liked it, though, including our Peter Bradshaw. I missed Cronenberg's Cosmopolis. Instead, I finished the novel on the train home.

I never felt I'd seen the birth of a new fresh voice at the festival. It does happen from time to time: with Andrea Arnold's first film Red Road; with Ari Folman's Waltz with Bashir I felt the real excitement of watching something absolutely new emerge before my eyes (often at Cannes, the press audience is lucky enough to be seeing the very first screening of the film, even before the cast).

Instead, for me, there were good films by directors who have made better work: Thomas Vinterberg's The Hunt, which for me wasn't up there with Festen (but which many people enjoyed greatly); Andrew Dominik's Killing them Softly, which didn't live up to the promise of The Assassination of Jesse James; Cristian Mungiu's Beyond the Hills, not as gripping as his Four Months, Three Weeks, Two Days.

My favourite news story was Ken Loach and Rebecca O'Brien's hearty condemnation of the BBFC in demanding the removal of the word "cunt" from their The Angels' Share to secure it a 15 certificate. I think they've got a point: are people really offended more by this word than by extreme violence in cinema? I know I'm not. It has to be said that whole tranches of films passed with my hands before my eyes, notably Killing them Softly, which really goes for the kickings and beatings. Its director declared: "I like violence in the movies".

Another recommendation: look out for Pablo Larraín's No when it gets its UK release. It's a funny, cleverly made and ultimately optimistic film (albeit with a hard edge) about the 1988 referendum in Chile that led to Augusto Pinochet's stepping down. And though many had, by the end of the festival, already forgotten about Wes Anderson's light-as-air opening film Moonrise Kingdom, I thought it a joy. And it's at the cinema this week.