Absolute dross of poor exposition, cheap ancient jokes about the north, and templated British feel-good flick script so rigid you could set your watch by it. The film opens with the titular Dave singing karaoke and a man coming up to him to pay back a loan, telling him he should open the Bank of Dave, to help all the working class people and show that fancy London lot what’s what. The next scene sees Dave and his wife walking home from the pub, whilst Dave muses out loud, “hmm. The Bank Of Dave.” Wonderful. So that’s that out of the way then. We then move onto the hilarious hour or so of a lawyer from London visiting the north and getting into hilarious scrapes in parochial town life, like not understanding people making small talk with him, or the presence of a Greggs or something, I don’t know. Obviously he then goes native, decides to take up Dave’s cause, fall in love with a local lass, and the film ends with a giant Def Leppard benefit gig. You know what, fine? If this is how Rory Kinnear pays for Men, I get it. But this does nothing to dispel the latter day view of Netflix original films, ‘cause lord knows they couldn’t get bums in seats in cinemas for this.