Tag Archives: woody harrelson

PPH presents White Men Can’t Jump | TONIGHT!


“You can put a cat in the oven, but that don’t make it a biscuit”  Sidney Deane (Wesley Snipes)

*     *     *     *     *

I’ve never really understood what that means, but tonight, at the Clapham Picturehouse, I’m going to get another chance to find out. And you’re invited too.

In the third edition of Permanent Plastic Helmet presents (following Do The Right Thing and Beats Rhymes and Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest), we’re delighted to be putting on a 20th anniversary screening of Ron Shelton’s classic comedy White Men Can’t Jump.

To get you in the mood, you can remind yourself of how amazing the film is by watching the trailer, or (and I highly recommend this) by reading this fascinating oral history of the film’s making over at the top sports & culture website Grantland.

We’re kicking off in the bar at 7.30, with drinks, music, pizza and snacks, then the film (preceded by a brief intro from yours truly, and a raffle draw) at 8.30.

You can buy tickets here, or rock up on the door. Prices are £9, £8 members, £7 concessions. See you there!


Screening Announcement: White Men Can’t Jump @ Clapham Picturehouse, Thursday 6 Dec, 20:30

Following hot on the heels of sold-out showings of Do The Right Thing and Beats Rhymes and Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest, PPH presents... returns for its third outing with a special 20th anniversary screening of Ron Shelton’s classic basketball comedy White Men Can’t JumpThe time and place? 20:30 on Thursday 6 December at south London’s lovely Clapham Picturehouse.

One of the funniest films of the 90’s – and one of the greatest sports movies full stop – White Men Can’t Jump features career-best performances from Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson as competing street b-ball hustlers pushing each other to the limit in the scorching L.A. sun. With ace support from Rosie Perez, and bags of zinging dialogue, it’s a dazzling tale of hoops, race, relationships… and foods that begin with the letter ‘Q’!

The screening will be preceded by food and drink soundtracked by classic 90s hip-hop and soul in the bar, plus a raffle with some great prizes on offer. You can, and absolutely should, buy tickets. To get yourself in the mood, watch the trailer below:

You can put a cat in the oven but that don’t make it a biscuit or: Woody? He would, he did!

SoccerAid, the charity football friendly arranged by Robbie Williams, returned last night for its third instalment, and ripe entertainment it was too.

The first half of the match was relatively entertaining, if standard fare, with some sharp performances from a collection of ex-pros (Jamie Redknapp, Teddy Sheringham, Alan Shearer), decent contributions from some evidently handy celebs (Olly Murs, Ralf Little, Damien Lewis) and, most notably, a languid masterclass from Zinedine Zidane, who made every touch look so easy.

The real fun, predictably, came from the less orthodox celebrities drafted in to up the interest levels. A bulbous Mike Myers was surprisingly adept, yet unsurprisingly immobile. Woody Harrelson (reported last week to have been joining in games at random on Battersea Park) elected not to show up in the guise of White Men Can’t Jump‘s tanned, lithe wise-cracker Billy Hoyle, but rather Kingpin‘s bemused, one-handed bowler Roy Munson. And while White Men Can’t Jump, the makers of SoccerAid seemed to surmise that Black People Couldn’t Play Football, for Henrik Larsson aside, the token presence was Brian Lara, who gave us one defence-splitting pass and one almighty shank – the kind that gets worse and worse every time you watch the replay. In a neat piece of simultaneous programming, Wilfred Emmanuel-Jones was suffering a similar alienation over on Channel 4’s ‘Cameron’s Black Tory’, although he didn’t have two-fifths of Westlife and The Mentalist to cheer him up. There was a laughable performance from Heroes’ James Kyson Lee, whose sole contribution was to throw-in a corner, and Paddy McGuinness, host of Take Me Out, did some taking out of his own, allegedly decapitating a small child sat in Row Z with a genuine three-pointer.

As the second half progressed, and the game edged toward extra time, the surrealism levels cranked up and the whole affair seemed to veer into Mulholland Drive territory. When Ben Shepherd left Zidane on his arse with the cleanest tackle seen since Elton John’s wedding night, and rose with the ball, granite-faced, as if it was the most normal thing ever, I expected the match to disappear into a blue box and re-emerge replaced by a dissolute, crying Theakston furiously masturbating in a dressing gown, while a filthy, bearded Murs leapt out from behind a wheelie-bin.

But, alas,  and as destined, this was all about Woody. His shanked, toe-punted, matchwinning penalty and subsequent thousand-yard stare reminded us that football is a funny old game indeed. And SoccerAid was the best thing I’ve seen on TV in ages.