Television Review: Dave (Lost, S2X18, 2006)
Dave (S02E18)
Airdate: 5 April 2006
Written by: Edward Kitsis & Adam Horowitz
Directed by: Jack bender
Running Time: 47 minutes
In the latter half of its sophomore season, Lost appeared to be steering itself towards a more logical, if increasingly conventional, trajectory. The mysteries of the Hatch had been partially explained with the mechanical pragmatism of the Button, the Others had been revealed as a group of dishevelled kidnappers rather than supernatural phantoms, and character flashbacks were firmly rooted in terrestrial backstories. It was a direction that risked making the island’s enigmas disappointingly mundane. Sensing this, the producers executed a sharp, deliberate swerve, lobbing a profound and audacious red herring into the narrative mix. The result was Dave, an episode that remains one of the series’ most memorable instalments precisely because it is also among its most controversial and, in hindsight, dangerously brazen.
The episode centres on Hugo “Hurley” Reyes, arguably the ensemble’s most universally beloved figure—the heart of the camp, the provider of comic relief, the emotional anchor. Here, however, he is portrayed as one of the island’s most troubled souls. His conflict is twofold: a resurgent eating disorder, triggered by the discovery of the Swan Station’s lavish food stash, and a deep, anxious attraction to the recently introduced Libby. This vulnerability makes him the perfect vessel for a psychological assault. Initially, Libby, utilising her stated expertise as a clinical psychologist, becomes his support. In a moment of apparent liberation, she encourages him to destroy the food stash, a symbolic rejection of his crutch. The cruel irony arrives almost instantly, as the camp discovers a massive parachute drop of new Dharma Initiative supplies. Hurley’s personal victory is rendered laughably insignificant by the island’s capricious mechanics, isolating him further.
It is from this fertile ground of guilt and isolation that “Dave” emerges. Played with unsettling familiarity by Ethan Handler, Dave is an apparition from Hurley’s past at the Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute—a best friend and fellow patient. The episode’s flashbacks meticulously construct their bond, framing Dr. Brooks’s (Bruce Davison) disapproval of Dave as typical psychiatric caution. The devastating reveal, via a developed Polaroid proving Dave’s non-existence, is a brilliant move of economical storytelling. When Dave resurfaces on the island, his purpose is far more sinister than mere companionship. He confronts Hurley with a terrifying, elegant thesis: if he, Dave, is not real, then perhaps nothing on the island is. Weaving together the incredible coincidences of Hurley’s life—the lottery win, the plane crash survival, the romance with someone like Libby—Dave posits a compelling fantasy: Hurley is still comatose in Santa Rosa, and the island is an elaborate palliative dream. The cliff-top temptation, where Dave urges Hurley to jump to his “death” to wake up, is the episode’s philosophical and dramatic apex. It is only Libby’s last-minute intervention, her desperate affirmation of her own reality and her feelings for him, that pulls Hurley back.
Yet, this romantic resolution is deliberately poisoned by the episode’s final, silent revelation. A flashback shows Libby herself, blank-faced and institutionalised, as a patient at Santa Rosa. The foundation of Hurley’s salvation—the “real” person who proved his reality—is catastrophically undermined. Scripted by Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz, this twist reinvigorated the most “out there” fan theories from Season 1, specifically those suggesting the island was a form of afterlife or collective dream. However, by 2006, these concepts felt strangely unoriginal. The “imaginary friend” twist had been popularised to the point of cliché by The Sixth Sense, while the broader “it’s all a dream” narrative had been rendered infamous by the reviled finale of St. Elsewhere. “Dave” thus risked feeling like a reheated trope, a narrative dead-end dressed in Lost’s aesthetic.
Furthermore, the episode painted the writers into a formidable corner. Introducing the tantalising idea that the entire Lost universe was a product of Hurley’s mind created a binary and untenable outcome. If the series committed to this idea, it would instantly invalidate every other character’s journey and subplot, reducing them to phantasms in one man’s psychosis. If, as was far more likely, it did not, then Dave served merely as intense character flavour—a poignant but ultimately pointless exploration of Hurley’s mental state. The Libby twist feels like a hasty attempt to sidestep this problem, replacing one narrative trap with another more personal mystery, but one that would ultimately leda to a frustrating dead end.
While Dave engages in this high-wire metaphysical act, it nevertheless continues the season’s ongoing mythology. The plot concerning the impostor “Henry Gale” advances, with Sayid’s investigation revealing the elaborate steps taken to assume a real man’s identity, deepening the mystery of the Others’ resources. More crucially, Henry’s confession to Locke—that he never pushed the Button during the lockdown—reintroduces a vital element of existential doubt. It suggests the Button’s mythos could itself be a hoax or an intricate mind game, thematically echoing Hurley’s own crisis of faith. This parallel ensures the episode remains tethered to the core narrative.
Competently directed by Jack Bender, the episode also provides a visceral catharsis in its subplot. After one too many cruel jibes, the perpetually tormented Sawyer becomes a literal punching bag for Hurley’s pent-up frustration. In a satisfying physical reversal, Hurley uses his greater body mass to overwhelm the show’s prime antagonist, a moment that temporarily inverts the camp’s social dynamics. It is a small but effective beat that grounds the episode’s psychological turmoil in raw, human conflict.
At the end of the day, Dave is a fascinating, flawed experiment. It is a brave and memorable swing for the fences that deliberately destabilises the audience’s perception of the show’s reality. Yet, its reliance on well-worn narrative devices and the potentially story-breaking implications of its central conceit leave it feeling, in the grand scheme of Lost’s mythology, like an elaborate and beautiful cul-de-sac. It deepens Hurley’s character immeasurably and provides some of the season’s most chilling moments, but it does so by dancing on the edge of a cliff from which the series itself, wisely, chose not to jump.
RATING: 6/10 (++)
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