Film Review

One of my favourite things to do on my spare time is..... watch horrors movies. So recently I watched a film called A Serbian Film. It was suppose to show a "parody of modern politically correct films made in Serbia which are financially supported by foreign fund" states by the director and writer, Srđan Spasojević and Aleksandar Radivojević. Which kind of suggests that it is not for the faint hearted and my dear viewers it is not!
Warning Spoilers!
For people who are too scared or not sure they want to watch this film here is all the sickening scenes, giving in detail.

The violence in this film is extremely graphic and not for the weak of heart or stomach.
A woman slaps her husband in the face.

A woman yells at a child in two different scenes, one of them, she slaps the girl.

A woman on her knees cries as a man slaps her in the face repeatedly.

A man punches another man.

A man turns an unconscious woman over and we see that she is completely nude, her body is covered in cuts, and her face is badly burned.

A man wakes up with blood on his chest.

A man urinates and blood comes out, the man yells in pain.

A man rapes a woman by thrusting her from behind as she whimpers and whines in pain. The man slaps her on the back and punches her several times. A man hands the man a machete and he stabs her on the neck with it and decapitates her. He continues to rape her dead body until he is forced off.

A completely nude woman is seen on the ground, her arms hoisted above her with chains, with blood dripping from her face. A man filming opens her mouth and we see that she has had most, or all of her teeth removed.

Two men step out of a car and break the necks of two men who were beating up another man.

A man stabs a woman in the neck with a syringe needle and she falls back on a bed.

A man walks into a room and two men are seen bloody and dead on the floor.

A man thrusts behind into someone and blood is seen pouring down the person's leg.

A woman walks into a room and she is bleeding from her vulva. She falls to the ground and dies.

A man beats another man's face back into the ground and he bleeds.

A woman bites a man on the neck and he bleeds, she then proceeds to beat him over the head with a motorcycle helmet.

A man shoots two men several times and one of the men strangles the other man. One of the men falls to his knees and the man skewers his eye with his erection.

A man punches a woman in the face and she is seen bleeding.

A man beats another man's head in several times with a motorcycle helmet.

A man holds a gun in bed with his wife and child and a gunshot is heard from outside. The three are seen dead in bed with blood. They are then shown surrounded by cameras and lights and it is implied that the police officers at the scene are going to film necrophilia porn with their corpses.

It was giving 5.3 stars.... Don't watch if your easily sickened or have children some themes are terrible....

Swimmer mauled to death by Great White Shark in front of hundreds of tourists on New Zealand beach as armed police opened fire on the animal at least 20 times

Mr Mose said that as blood filled the water, three or four more sharks arrived. The fishermen were forced to watch as the shark carried the man’s body out to sea.
‘It’s awful – like a nightmare. I was shaking, scared, panicked.’

Police in inflatable rubber boats shoot at a shark off Muriwai Beach in New Zealand as they attempt to retrieve a body following a fatal shark attack

At least three sharks are believed to have been involved in the attack

Mr Mose, who said he had never seen sharks before despite fishing in the area for three years, added: ‘All I was thinking was I wanted to jump in the water and help, but I didn’t want to get attacked, too.’
Police rushed to the scene and officers in a helicopter guided another on board a rubber boat to where the 12ft to 14ft shark was swimming near the victim.
He then fired around 20 shots into the water, witnesses said. It was unclear if the shark had been killed. Inspector Shawn Rutene said he could not confirm whether the shark that was shot, and which ‘rolled away’ as a result, was involved in the initial attack.

Predator: It is thought Mr Strange was attacked by a great white shark

He refused to say if it was attacking Mr Strange at the time. Police took 30 more minutes to retrieve his body.
Adventure lover Mr Strange had worked all over the world, according to his website. His short film Aphrodite’s Farm was in ten major festivals and last year won the Crystal Bear award for best short film at the Berlin Film Festival.
He had also been a finalist at the London International Awards.
His wife Meg was last night being comforted at their home, not far from the beach.
His family, some of whom live overseas, said in a statement Mr Strange was a ‘glorious’ person, a ‘great father, husband and friend.’

Grief: There were emotional scenes at Muriwai Surf Lifesaving Club after the fatal attack

Volunteer lifeguard service chairman Tony Jago said the victim's family was 'very upset', left, after police spoke to media about the attack, right

Scene: Muriwai beach was closed in the wake of the attack on Wednesday

Police said the swimmer was about 200 metres from shore when he was attacked

The great white: Attacks on humans are often cases of mistaken identity

Do you wanna build a snowman?

Anna:
Elsa?
(Knocking: Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock)
Do you wanna build a snowman?
Come on lets go and play
I never see you anymore
Come out the door
It's like you've gone away-
We used to be best buddies
And now we're not
I wish you would tell me why!-
Do you wanna build a snowman?
It doesn't have to be a snowman.

Elsa:
Go away, Anna

Anna:
Okay, bye...

(Knocking)
Do you wanna build a snowman?
Or ride our bikes around the halls
I think some company is overdue
I've started talking to
the pictures on the walls-
(Hang in there, Joan!)
It gets a little lonely
All these empty rooms,

Just watching the hours tick by-
(Tic-Tock, Tic-Tock, Tic-Tock, Tic-Tock, Tic-Tock)

(Orchestral)

Anna:
(Knocking)
Elsa?
Please, I know you're in there,
People are asking where you've been
They say "have courage", and I'm trying to
I'm right out here for you, just let me in
We only have each other
It's just you and me
What are we gonna do?

Do you wanna build a Snowman?

Terry Pratchett: 'Doctor Who was a safe option for Saturday teatime'

Doctors came and went, but for 26 years it was part of this country's shared heritage and memory.

'Our hero dies – and the series continues. It's easy to forget now how groundbreaking that moment was' … the 11 Doctors. Photograph: Various/BBC/Matt Burlem

I was there at the beginning. That's what I remember – watching the first episode twice, because of public demand and that pesky business with the grassy knoll. And I remember the dreadful pepperpots appearing, and the moment that the first companions left – that strange grandchild and those remarkable and rare teachers who took everything in their stride, including time travel and a police box bigger on the inside – and we realised that in the so‑far surprisingly safe world of Doctor Who things could change. They were barely mentioned again, as far as I remember. And the series marched on. Until the great defining moment, the decision that would propel the series on for 50 years – the change of the main character, the first regeneration. It's easy to forget now how groundbreaking that moment was. Our hero dies – and the series continues, a different lead with different tics but somehow still the same man.

 

I was 18 when Patrick Troughton took over from William Hartnell and other things – mad, confusing, exciting things like drink, girls, Daleks – no wait, not those – were happening. But I still watched it when I could, and some of those moments are still with me. It's funny that way, Doctor Who, it's been such a part of the DNA of Britain for so many years now that even if you didn't watch it religiously, you probably know more about it than you think. Daleks, Cybermen, bigger on the inside – everyone knows what you're talking about. And it was always a safe option for Saturday afternoon tea with the family. Doctors came and went, but for 26 years it was part of this country's shared heritage and memory. Anybody my age or younger has been informed by it, moulded by it, at least to some degree. For so many during those years it was their first introduction to science fiction, and its influence is far-reaching. Generations of authors, screenwriters, actors, dreamers found their escape in the wonky corridors and Styrofoam monsters of this enduring institution.

And then it went away. I had watched a few episodes with my daughter, but it wasn't for me anymore, and at times was obviously suffering from lack of budget and care from the BBC. I was saddened for the kids who would grow up without that comforting madness in their lives, telling them that you could be good and clever and save the day and you didn't have to brandish a gun to achieve those things. But the wheel turns and all things shall come to pass (after an entertaining but ridiculously American stutter with Paul McGann) and there it was, back on Saturday nights, the odd bloke with the phone box that travels in time, having adventures and saving the day.

And I watched it, and it was great. It reminded me of my childhood, which is always a nice thing at my age. But, at last, we had a Doctor who could act – and I mean could really act. Oh, it wasn't science fiction any more (had it ever really been?) there was too much waving of screwdrivers and flying of spaceships looking like the Titanic and "the day has been saved because". Not because of anything that made sense, quite often, just because. That's not SF, not really – that's make-it-up-as-you-go-along. But that's OK, as the show has never really pretended to be much more than this. And the recent actors have been wonderful, drawing that line back to the grumpy old man who kicked it all off 50 years ago. And the Daleks are still scary, which isn't something you can say about many half-century-old alien designs. I love the fact that there are children out there who are learning that life can take you anywhere, and anything can happen, and it can be fantastic. But also that sometimes, life takes away as well. The hero can fail, or die, and we don't all have a magical hand‑wavey way to regenerate ourselves. It's an important lesson. 

FREDDIE KNOLLER

Freddie was born in Vienna in 1921, where he lived with his parents and two brothers.

From early childhood, Freddie and his family were subjected to anti-Semitism. Following the Anschluss, this became worse, causing Freddie and his brothers to leave Vienna. Freddie went first, and travelled illegally to Antwerp, Belgium. Freddie’s mother and father, at 53 and 56, believed that they were too old for anything to happen to them, and so they stayed and were later deported to Theresienstadt.

In Antwerp, the Jewish Committee provided living quarters for him, which he shared with two other refugees. However, he picked up bad habits here, and the Jewish Community gave him the choice of either joining a camp for Jewish refugees or being without further assistance from them. Freddie joined the camp of Merksples and later Exarde, where he joined the camp orchestra.

In May 1940, the Nazis invaded Belgium and everyone in the camp fled to France. Freddie was arrested at the border and detained as an enemy alien in an internment camp. He was able to escape in the middle of the night, and made it to Gaillac, in the unoccupied area of France, where his aunt, uncle and cousins lived.

Freddie quickly became bored with the life in Gaillac and decided to visit Paris, a city he had always dreamed of going to. While there, he became fascinated by the night life. He obtained false papers and earned money by taking German soldiers to the nightclubs, brothels and cabarets, where he earned a percentage of anything that they spent once inside. In May 1943 while working, he was arrested by a Gestapo officer. Although the officer did not suspect that he was Jewish and using false papers, he did tell him not to continue working where he was and to instead work for the German Reich. Freddie knew that he could no longer risk staying in Paris. Through his contacts, Freddie joined the French Resistance group, ‘Bessiere’ at Figeac (South West France) fighting his enemies. A broken love affair led to his betrayal and arrest by the Vichy Police. After being tortured he had to admit to being a Jew, and he was then sent to Drancy Transit Camp.

In October 1943, Freddie was sent on a transport to Auschwitz-Birkenau. During the journey, he looked after a middle aged Frenchman called Robert, who was a doctor. Robert went on to be put in charge of the camp hospital, and in gratitude for Freddie helping him on the journey, he gave him extra food every day, which he believes was the reason for his survival.

On January 18th 1945, Freddie was sent on a Death March, and ended up at Dora-Nordhausen, where the V1 and V2 rockets were made. As the Americans got closer, they were evacuated from there to Bergen-Belsen. From here, Freddie was liberated on April 15th 1945.

After the liberation, Freddie went with a British officer to a nearby farm to find food. In the wardrobe, he found a picture of Hitler which he cut up. The farmer, a supporter of Hitler, shouted antisemitic abuse at Freddie, who reacted by stabbing him. Soon after this incident, Freddie left for France, where he was reunited with his brothers who had survived in the US.

In 1947, Freddie emigrated to the US where he met and married an English woman. After two years of marriage, she became homesick so they moved to England, where Freddie continues to live. He regularly talks to students about his experiences. Freddie’s has also written two books about his experiences, Desperate Journey and Living with the Enemy, and his testimony can also be found in Survival: Holocaust Survivors tell their Story by Beth Shalom

'Why we must not forget the Holocaust'

Holocaust survivor tells BBC News Online how he believes the event should be remembered, following the announcement that London will host next year's fifth National Holocaust Memorial Day.

Happier times... but Knoller says the Holocaust must not be forgotten

When Freddie Knoller walked free from the Belsen-Bergen concentration camp on 15 April 1945 he swore he would tell the world about what he saw.

He would tell them about the gassings of babies and women, the executions of fellow slave labourers and the 1,000 people he was transported to Auschwitz with, of whom only 13 survived.

At age 83 is he is doing just that, although it was certainly not easy in the beginning.

"This is a unique event where a government by law wanted to exterminate a people.

"I hope the second and third generation of survivors will continue telling the world about what happened."

The 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau camp on 27 January next year should be "remembered globally," he says.

Prostitutes

Mr Knoller had ended up at Auschwitz via Paris' red light district and "thanks" to a girlfriend who handed him over to the Gestapo.

Deported from Vienna to France, he found work in Paris as a young man securing prostitutes for the German soldiers.

As a young man Knoller arranged prostitutes for German soldiers

It was dangerous work, even though he had false papers.

If ever he was asked about his accent, he would tell them he was from Alsace-Lorraine, near the German border.

"I would tell them: 'I am happy to have you here in my country'. It was all fairy tales."

He eventually won their confidence but it backfired: the Germans asked him to work for them as an interpreter.

He fled Paris to join the French resistance.

"I met a young girl who I thought I was in love with but we fought. I told her I wanted her to have nothing to do with me.

"She then handed me over. She knew where in the hills I was staying."

Book published

There began a terrible period - slave labour, killings, gassings and forced marches. He kept silent about those years for three decades.

It was only when his two teenage daughters in England, where he owned a raincoat business, asked him to talk that he opened up.

He was shipped off to a camp after an argument with a girlfriend

"They had seen the number 157103 on my arm and said to me: 'if we have children, what are we going to tell them about you?'" Now he says he cannot stop talking. He has written a book about his experiences, titled Desperate Journey and regularly gives talks in schools. "People should know about it. It's a different thing to read history which has been watered down."
He says only by remembering the Holocaust, we can prevent such an atrocity from happening again.

Autobiography of Freddie Knoller, A Holocaust Survivor

He was born into a cultured Viennese family in 1921. When the Germans entered Austria, he fled west. He became a "tourist guide" and pimp for the Nazi soldiers in Paris. He joined the French Resistance, but was betrayed to the authorities by a spurned lover. The French police handed him to the Gestapo and he was sent by cattle truck to a concentration camp. As the allies advanced, Freddie went on a number of death-marches from one concentration camp to another. His supreme optimism and determination to live saved him. His parents perished, but his two brothers had escaped to the U.S.A. Freddie married an English woman, and became a successful businessman.

Synopsis of the proposed book:

For many years, I have been lecturing to school children throughout Great Britain about my life during the tragic years under the Nazis. So often I have been asked by the children and teachers to put my story in writing.

It is the story of a young naive boy trying to live life to the fullest extent, a life so vivid and stirring. My attitude of hope and optimism helped me to overcome the ordeal and was one of the reasons why I am still alive today.

My father was an accountant and quite strict. My mother loved life - very easy-going, always happy and very musical. She made sure that her three sons received musical tuition. My oldest brother, Otto, played the piano. Eric, learned to play the violin, so naturally I had to learn the cello at the age of 6.

By the time I was 10, we performed on the stage and at charity functions.

From early childhood, my family and I were subjected to anti-Semitism, for which the Austrians were so well-known. I was ever so often set upon by Christian children on my way to school.

After the Anschluss, these attacks became even more virulent. On the night of the 9th November 1938, when the Nazis burnt down all the Synagogues, my parents insisted that we, the children, should emigrate.

Eric was the first to leave, on a visa to Florida in the U.S.A. I was the next one to leave, going illegally to Belgium. Otto, was the last one to leave our parents, he went illegally to Holland and from there to England. My parents did not want to leave, saying that they were too old, so nothing could happen to them.

My destination was Brussels, and then Antwerp, where I was given the address of a diamond dealer, who helped me morally and financially. There I was, a very young and naive 17 year-old boy, for the first time, away from parental control, wanting to taste all the things which a boy, in normal circumstances, would not have been allowed to experience. The Jewish Committee provided living quarters which I had to share with two other refugees of about my age. In their company, I learned how to play poker, and how to smoke. They also introduced me to alcohol and bad women. This freedom was stopped when the Jewish Community gave me the choice, either to join a camp for Jewish refugees or to be without further assistance from them.

I chose Merksplas and later Exarde, a camp for younger refugees, where I joined the camp orchestra.

When German troops invaded Belgium in May 1940, everyone in the camp fled on foot to France. On the border, I was arrested by the French as an enemy alien, and taken to St Cyprien Internment Camp for the enemies of France, regardless of whether they were Jewish or real German Nazis. The food and hygiene at this camp were disastrous and soon typhus broke out. I escaped during the night, walking 10 km to the next town, Perpignan. From there, I proceeded to Gaillac, where my aunt, uncle and cousins lived.

In the meantime, the Germans had occupied Paris and the northern part of France, but Gaillac was still in the unoccupied Zone, ruled by the Vichy Government. I became bored, craving for new adventures. I decided that I must see Paris, the town of my dreams.

My relatives fought with me and tried to stop me going into the "Lion's Den." However, I insisted and off I went. In Paris, I became fascinated by the night life of Pigalle and earned my living by taking German soldiers to night-clubs, to brothels and to cabarets. I earned a percentage, at these places, of whatever the soldiers consumed. At the clubs, I organised myself with false identification papers and became "Robert Metzner" born in Metz, Alsace-Lorraine. I met all kinds of people: decent German soldiers, homosexuals, abusive Nazis and French collaborators.

I met a wonderful Frenchman who worked in the Resistance. I met some very nice women, and some tough prostitutes. At one occasion, I was arrested by a Gestapo officer who claimed to be an expert on recognising Jews. He agreed with me, that as I was born in Alsace Lorraine, my ancestors must have been of good German background. He could recognise this from the shape of my head. The officer warned me not to go back to Pigalle but to work for the German Reich.

In May 1943, I joined the Maquis near Figeac in unoccupied France and lived in an abandoned shepherds hut on top of a hill. Among us were a number of Jews, quite a number of French Communists and some young people, who did not want to work in Germany under the new law of "Service du Travail Obligatoire" for the young people. Apart from political discussions and arguments, we did not do much resisting except for one attempt to blow up a German troop train. We did, however, work for the peasants and farmers in the region who paid us with food.

I had a relationship with a young girl from the next village, with whom I thought I was in love. Like a fool, I admitted to her in a moment of lovemaking that I had false papers and that I was hiding because I did not want to work for the Germans.

One day, we had an argument and I told her that I will not see her again. A few days later, I was arrested by the French Police. When I showed them my papers, they just laughed. They asked me for the names of my Resistance unit and wanted to know where I came from. In order to avoid torture, I told them that I know nothing about a Resistance unit, but that I was a Jew from Vienna hiding up in the hills. They took me to Gestapo and was then taken to Drancy, the infamous transit camp for the east.

At the beginning of October 1943, my name came up for deportation to the east on the 10th October 1943.

We were taken to the railway station and close to 100 of us were squeezed into each "Cattle Wagon." There was not enough room for everyone to sit on the floor. We youngsters made room for the old people, women with their babies and the infirm.

In the wagon, there was one bucket with drinking water and one empty sanitary bucket.

We travelled for three days and three nights, to our destination. I will never forget the stench, the arguments, the screaming of the babies and the moans of those dying. I was squeezed against a middle-aged Frenchman called Robert, a gentle person who looked very much like my father. I took a liking to him and made him as cosy as I could.

During the trip, we became good friends. He told me that he was a doctor and I did not realise then, that because of him, I am alive today.

When we arrived we saw a sign "Osviecim" on the railway platform. We guessed that we were somewhere in Poland. The platform was full of SS with dogs and there were some young people in striped prisoners clothes.

The SS selected the younger people who were to walk into the camp, but the older men and women with their children were taken away by trucks. This was the time when we were taught German discipline through blows and killings.

Some heard alarming rumours which very few believed, but others believed them and went straight into the electrified fences. I realised that there were two choices:

You can either give up and within 2 or 3 days you are dead or you fight to live and adjust yourself to the situation "by hook or by crook." I chose the latter.

I did not look at others who suffered and moaned about hunger, or those who gave up their personal hygiene - a sign that they had given up. But wanting to live, I had to take care of myself - I was number one. I had one mission, only, to survive, in order to tell the world about the barbarism of the "cultured" people of Germany.

On a visit to the hospital I saw my doctor friend from the train there. He told me that he was put in charge of the camp hospital. He told me to come to him every evening when I return from work, and he will try to give me extra food. He was helping me because we had become friends on the train.

At work, I had to carry 25kg of cement bags on my back, day-in, day-out. To do this work and survive with the minimal rations of food we were getting was not possible. The extra food I received from my friend Robert was surely the reason of my survival.

When the Russian approached our camp, the whole camp was evacuated. The date was January 17th 1945. We were lined up in rows of 5 and were told that we will have to walk, and that anybody trying to escape will be shot. It was very cold and it was snowing.

We went westward walking in our wooden shoes on icy snow-covered roads. We were still in our striped thin clothes. People dropped like flies. Many collapsed and they were shot on the spot. We had to take the corpses and throw them in the ditch next to the road. The SS surrounded each of our column and were ready with their guns.

After walking the whole day and part of the night, we reached a brick factory where we were allowed to rest and sleep undercover. Only half of us were still alive when we arrived at the factory. One in our group, a French political prisoner did not wake up. He was dead, frozen stiff. I took his red triangle from his tunic, showing that he was a political prisoner, put it in my pocket hoping to exchange it later on for my Star of David insignia.

Finally, we were taken to a railway station and squeezed into cattle wagons, about 80 to each wagon, standing room only. We thus travelled through Austria and Germany seven-days and seven-nights until we reached our destination. Nine in our wagons died during the journey.

Our new camp was Dora-Nordhausen. This is where they manufactured the V-1 and V-2 in tunnels underneath the Hartz mountain. We worked in the tunnels pushing wagons on rails and carrying heavy metal objects. We experienced a lot of hangings of prisoners, Russian prisoners of war and even civilians in the tunnels, who were supposed to have committed sabotage. One night, the Allied planes bombed the entrance to the tunnels. Many of our comrades who worked there in the night-shift died.

The next day we were given shovels in order to repair the damage. As the American troops were nearing our region we were again evacuated to Bergen-Belsen. There was no more food available, and the beatings stopped. The SS disappeared and were guarded by Croatian and Hungarian SS units. We dug into the ground to find some edible roots. Many collapsed from hunger and dysentery and died where they collapsed.

On 15th April 1945, the British troops entered Bergen-Belsen. We were given hot milk with rice, which we devoured like wild animals. Many of us died having stuffed themselves with the food which the stomach could not digest. A British officer asked for volunteers to go to nearby farms and bring back any food we could find. I joined this group, with a British soldier carrying a gun. We searched for food, loaded them onto a trolley in view of the protesting German farmer and his wife. When I found a large picture of Hitler hidden behind a wardrobe, I took a knife and cut the picture to pieces. The old farmer got red in his face and shouted to me "Du Sau Jud." Without hesitation, I sank the knife in his belly. We left the farm soon after this.

I returned to France after being told not to go to Vienna because all Jews have been deported from there. With the help of the American Embassy in Paris, Eric found me in a little village where I was sent by the French Government to recuperate.

Our reunion was very emotional. Eric being a soldier in the American Army, was ordered by his Commanding Officer to search in all concentration camps for his parents and myself. He went to Vienna and found out that our parents were deported to Terezienstadt. He told me that Otto became a doctor, was married, and lives in New York.

In 1947, I emigrated to the U.S.A. and became a naturalised U.S. citizen. In 1950 I met my wife, Freda, on a blind date. We got married on the 31st December 1950. After two years in Baltimore, my wife became homesick and we made our way back to her parents in London. We have two daughters Marcia and Susie who were born in England.