An unnamed couple takes a romantic stroll among the frozen horse-heads. It’ll all make perfect sense — maybe — after you’ve seen Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg. It’s not really a documentary. It’s not exactly a memoir. It is ingenious and poetic. Frequently it’s apeshit hilarious. But, like, what the hell is this thing? Guy Maddin’s dreamy, beguiling My Winnipeg opens with the iconoclastic filmmaker employing the most loathsome directorial tactic there is: The camera fixes…