The guy dragging the dead rooster down Sunset Blvd. last night was seemingly normal enough. As was the richly metaphoric email from my mother about doomed love and dark, wounded birds. I draw the line, however, on the kid that just screamed at me, "There is a black pigeon over there! It`s hurt! You need to save it!" Am I being punked by French existentialists? Will there be wine and a QnA with the fillmmakers?