Warning: Contains spoilers for Body Double (1984).
Last year, I marked Valentine's Day with a lengthy piece examining, among other things, my love/hate relationship with the Simpsons episode "Black Widower", which sees my favourite intellectual clown-cum-career criminal wed perpetual lovelorn Selma Bouvier and then inexplicably try to bump her off on their honeymoon. I thought this year I would follow it up by taking a look at the episode focused on Selma's other failed marriage, this time to Hollywood has-been Troy McClure (voice of Phil Hartman), which occurs in "A Fish Called Selma" (3F15) of Season 7. Here, Selma encounters Troy when he's sent to the DMV for an eye test and agrees to take her out to dinner in exchange for giving him a pass. The two of them appear to hit it off and before long Troy, who has enjoyed a recent resurgence in publicity thanks to the relationship, is asking for Selma's hand in marriage. It all seems like something out of a fairy tale, but for the fact that Troy may be harbouring ulterior motives for wanting to be seen with her. They're nowhere near as sinister as Bob's ulterior motives from back in Season 3 (whatever the hell his motives actually were), but no more borne of affection for Selma, who is once again setting herself up to feel thoroughly used. This episode is best-remembered for its glorious envisioning of a stage musical based on perennial science fiction favourite Planet of The Apes, complete with an ode to orangutan kingpin Dr Zaius set to the tune of "Rock Me Armadeus" by Austrian new wave artist Falco. The pastiche is so hilarious, and so wonderfully on the nose, that it might seriously impair your ability to enjoy Planet of The Apes (or Falco) on its own terms (it's also only the second occasion that The Simpsons very brazenly spoiled the ending to Planet of The Apes, Homer previously having blurted out the big twist in "Deep Space Homer" of Season 5. Was there any other movie that they took so much perverted pleasure in ruining?*). I'll state upfront that this is the one aspect of the episode that we will not be talking about. I simply have nothing else to add about it that won't already have been said elsewhere.
Troy McClure enjoys a special status as one of the series' best-loved supporting characters (so much so that a high number of people consider Hartman's death in 1998 to be the single greatest factor in the show's decline), yet "A Fish Called Selma" is the only episode that follows him around for an extended amount of time and attempts to go particularly in-depth as to what makes him tick. Troy had been a recurring staple of the series since Season 2, but he was as tertiary as a character could be, appearing only in chintzy talk shows and third-rate educational videos, and seeming to exist in his own personal bubble; you never saw him hanging out in crowd scenes or interacting with other Springfieldians, unless they were also a part of the programs he presented. He was very much a one-joke character, that joke being that he was a C-list actor stuck in infomercial hell, who would always begin by reeling off some of his past "glories", the kind of low-rent titles you'd find lining VHS bargain bins or tucked away in the graveyard slots of cable TV. The impression you get, based on all his prior appearances, is that he's one of those nobodies who never had much of a career to begin with but is pretentious enough to act as if he's been in things that actually mattered. "You may remember me from..." feels like the punchline in itself; nobody would remember Troy from any of the credits he cites because odds are that nobody saw them in the first place. "A Fish Called Selma" paints a very different story, revealing that he was once a Hollywood heartthrob with a promising career ahead of him, but this was all harpooned when rumours surfaced about his depraved personal life (heavily hinted to have involved zoophilia). As it turns out, people DO remember Troy McClure, just for reasons that he'd sooner they forget. The whole deal with Troy and those fish was, of course, inspired by that urban legend you've probably heard about that celebrity who did naughty things with hamsters - usually Richard Gere, although the first time I heard that story it involved Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe of the Pet Shop Boys. (Incidentally, I've long suspected that the writers chose fish, of all animals, just so that they could facilitate that misunderstanding between Fat Tony and Louie.)
In Troy's case, were the rumours true? The episode certainly taunts us at multiple points, and Troy looks to be on the verge of confirming it when he confides that, "I have a romantic abnormality, one so unbelievable that it must be hidden from the public at all costs..." Still, the episode makes no bones about the sheer inanity that often fuels this kind of lurid tabloid gossip, as reflected in the ludicrous ease with which Lenny and Carl are persuaded to disregard everything they think they know about Troy the instant he gets a whiff of positive publicity. A sensationalist media that creates its own narratives and the mindlessness of a viewing public who willfully submit to this are favourite subjects of the series, as we've previously established, but "A Fish Called Selma" is specifically concerned with the hollowness of celebrity, and with the discrepancy between private life and public image, a subject it approaches in a typically double-edged Simpsons fashion. It's all-too aware of the fickle emotional tawdriness that underlies our fascination with the personal lives of the rich and famous - we love to see a celebrity tumble off their pedestal, sure, but we're also suckers for a good comeback story. The attachment felt by the public to a celebrity may be skin-deep to the point of being completely insincere, but the episode isn't any more romantic about the private affairs of the stars themselves, peppering itself with references to real-life celebrities behaving badly. At one point, Troy is offered a part in a buddy comedy with Hugh Grant and Rob Lowe and responds, indignantly, "Those sick freaks?!". This joke might mean less to modern viewers, but at the time the episode was first broadcast, on 24th March 1996, Grant and Lowe were both names steeped in scandal. On 27th June 1995, Grant was caught red-handed with a prostitute in his car just off of Sunset Boulevard; for Grant, who was then coasting off the surprise cross-Atlantic success of Four Weddings and A Funeral (1994) and in the process of transitioning into Hollywood stardom, this was a huge embarrassment, but didn't really harm his career in the long-term (probably less so than than all those tired romantic comedies he continued to be cast in). Lowe's scandal, which involved a videotape surfacing in 1988 showing him having sexual intercourse with a sixteen-year-old girl, was slightly less recent, but continued to have a toxic effect on his public image well into the 1990s, with his career eventually rebounding in 1999 when he was cast in the popular NBC series The West Wing. Elsewhere, Marge naively asserts that "Troy McClure is a perfect gentleman, like Bing Cosby or JFK." In an almost too-perfect display of prescience, the episode also contains a reference to English rock musician Gary Glitter - at one point, Homer is heard singing "Rock and Roll Part 2".
Above all, "A Fish Called Selma" is most obsessed with the mythos of celebrity, or rather, the alluring and often downright bizarre life that a celebrity takes on in our collective imaginations once they have attained sufficient cultural status. "Fish" implies that there's something intrinsically fake about the nature of celebrity, of which the manufactured images of the media are merely the starting point. It's in our own consciousness that our idols and pin-ups truly become mythological beasts, whether propped up as symbols of everything we aspire to be or, more frequently, warped into reflections of our darkest, innermost perversions. Hence the proliferation of the urban legend, that barely plausible yet strangely persuasive breed of modern folk tale that probably reveals more about the psyches of those who share and devour them than it does about the subject in question. We might play along with the media's representation of a celebrity, but there is some intuitive level on which we understand that it's all a game, or at the very least not the whole story, which explains the appeal of those whispered, underground rumours suggesting that a much-loved person is not all that they appear to be. We've already acknowledged the tremendous debt that "Fish" owes to that story about Richard Gere and his affinity for small furry creatures. The title "A Fish Called Selma" is simultaneously a nod to Charles Crichton's 1988 film A Fish Called Wanda and yet another sneaky reference to Troy's alleged infatuation with all things finned and scaly, but somebody over at The Simpsons Archive (that irksome but intermittently useful relic of the 1990s world wide web) reckons that it actually contains a triple meaning, alluding to another popular urban legend about a celebrity's private life - namely, that Jamie Lee Curtis (star of Wanda) was born a hermaphrodite. I think that's a bit of a stretch myself.
As for the whole sham marriage aspect of the episode, I have to admit that does strike something of a nerve with me, given that my own favourite actor is widely speculated to have been involved in one. Not everyone is as salaciously, obnoxiously, repugnantly obsessed with the subject as Charles Winecoff (in fact, no one is), but there are those who question the validity of Anthony Perkins' marriage to Berry Berenson in 1973, believing that they entered into the union because, much like Selma and Troy, they figured it would be mutually beneficial. This is largely based on the knowledge that Perkins was a closet gay and very insecure about it, so some speculate that his marriage to Berenson represented a kind of denial/rejection of his sexuality, or at the very least an attempt to reinvent his public image as a heterosexual family man, and that Berenson went along with it because she welcomed the publicity. Others contend that Perkins was merely bisexual (a concept that people are a lot more open to now than in Perkins' lifetime, or even when Winecoff penned his highly unpleasant excuse for a biography). Whatever the reality, they remained married until Perkins' death in 1992. It's a question that I personally could not be more indifferent toward - my stance is that it was entirely between Tony and Berry, and they're both dead now, so it strikes me as moot. Nevertheless, it does make some of backstage drama in "Fish" that extra bit more uncomfortable for me, since I am constantly relating it to the kind of scrutiny to which their relationship was subjected. The Simpsons always becomes more piquant whenever it scratches at something close to your heart.
Something else that occurs to me watching "A Fish Called Selma" is that it has to be one of the least Simpsons-orientated episodes of The Simpsons of out there, in that the family themselves barely feature in it. They appear in the opening scene, and Homer later has a significant part in the plot progression when Troy confides in him his real reason for wanting to marry Selma, but they're clearly peripheral characters in this particular slice of Springfieldian life. In fact, after the scene in which Marge and Patty confront Selma about the reality of her marriage, the family stop appearing altogether, and have no role in the episode's final resolution. Something that tends to hamper episodes focusing broadly on supporting characters is the unwritten obligation by which the writers usually abide to keep the Simpsons family themselves involved at all times, even where it's kind of a stretch that the issues in question would reasonably concern them ("The Two Mrs Nahasapeemapetilons" of Season 9 springs to mind), so it's refreshing to have an episode that's brave enough to give the titular characters only the bare minimum amount of screentime. "Fish" is quite content to be a story about Selma and Troy; it trusts these characters, and the strength of their marital drama, to carry it through to the finish. In that regard, it would undoubtedly have been seen as quite a risky episode at the time, particularly given that neither Selma or Troy might seem like obvious choices to front an episode so extensively by themselves. Selma's had her share of episodes focusing on her desire to start a family, sure, but these have always been firmly anchored within the context of the Simpsons' own daily lives (not to mention, her antagonistic relationship with Homer means that she and Patty are often portrayed quite negatively elsewhere in the series), and Troy was effectively a complete unknown; all we'd seen of him previously was the false persona he puts on for the cameras. What's effective about "A Fish Called Selma", in narrative terms, is that it does play authentically like a story happening on the sidelines of the Simpsons universe, a small but powerful behind-the-scenes drama concerning characters whose public stories have been misrepresented, whether willfully or not.
One of the episode's smartest gags is also one of its most subtle, and occurs during our momentary glimpses into Troy's eye-popping domestic life. Upon moving in, Selma is impressed with Troy's swanky bachelor pad, declaring it, "Ultra modern! Like living in the not-too-distant future!" But look again. Does Troy's pad seem at all familiar? Perhaps this visual gag will have most resonance among fans of Brian De Palma, for Troy's abode is actually the same building occupied by the protagonist in his 1984 film Body Double. Consider that Troy also drives a DMC DeLorean, a flop car model from the early 1980s that was nevertheless immortalised in popular culture thanks to its prominent usage in the Back To The Future franchise. Far from epitomizing the lifestyle of the not-too-distant future, Troy's material extravagances are symbols of his severe reclusiveness; in both cases, the gag seems to be that Troy is perpetually stuck in a zeitgeist that's long expired. The world has moved on and left him stranded in a kind of alternative vision of the future from the early to mid 1980s (which is probably around the time that his own career crashed and burned).
The plot of Body Double would no doubt resonate with Troy, for it concerns an out-of-work actor, Jake Scully (played by Craig Wasson), whose stint playing a vampire in a semi-pornographic horror is brought to a screeching halt when his crippling claustrophobia impedes his ability to act. Scully befriends a fellow actor, Sam Bouchard (Gregg Henry), at a method acting class, and when Scully is rendered homeless following a break-up with his girlfriend (Barbara Crampton), Bouchard graciously offers to put him up in the hi-tech Hollywood pad he house-sits (or so he claims) for a friend working in Europe. The home (actually the Chemosphere, a building designed by architect John Lautner in 1960) is shaped like a flying saucer and hovers above the Hollywood Hills like an interloper from another world entirely, and appears to have it all - aquarium, rotating bed, sauna, Jacuzzi and, best of all, an attractive female neighbour, Gloria (Deborah Shelton), who performs an erotic dance beside her window every night. Scully gets into the habit of observing her nightly ritual through a telescope, and becomes aware of at least one other pair of eyes out in the nocturnal skyline that shares his fixation, for Gloria is being stalked by a mysterious "Indian", whose intentions, Scully suspects, are none too savoury. As both the title and the promotional tagline ("You can't believe everything you see") would suggest, the central theme of the film is duplicity, in both senses of the word. Much of what Scully takes at face value transpires to be a ruse - the Gloria he watches is not always the real Gloria, but sometimes Holly (Melanie Griffith), a porn star hired to impersonate her, and the "Indian" is none other than Bouchard (or, as he actually known, Alexander Revelle) buried beneath layers of prosthetics. The hi-tech home, with all of its space age comforts, is the perfectly-baited trap, for Scully has been an unwitting pawn in Revelle's scheme to murder Gloria (revealed to be his girlfriend) and evade suspicion; Scully, who witnesses Gloria's brutal murder and is unable to intervene, sees the "Indian" kill her, and this is the account that the police ultimately accept. Body Double was one of multiple films by De Palma to owe a very obvious and self-conscious debt to the films of Alfred Hitchcock, Sisters (1972), Obsession (1976) and Dressed To Kill (1980) being earlier examples. Body Double borrows a number of key plot elements from Vertigo (the damsel in distress who is a double-dealing imposter, the protagonist hampered by an irrational fear), but its most obvious prototype is Rear Window; De Palma takes Hitchcock's basic scenario of a heroic peeping tom whose voyeuristic habits lead him to detect foul play in an adjacent apartment, reworking it so that the murderer here anticipates and manipulates the voyeur's involvement to his own ends (perhaps he anticipates it a little too perfectly - there was ample scope for Scully to think, "This doesn't concern me", and go back to his rotating bed...although maybe we can waive that given the implications of the film's climactic sequence?).
The punchline to the Body Double allusion in "Fish" occurs when we see an exterior shot of Troy's space age home and observe that this building, once the height of extravagance in the mid-1980s, now looks considerably worse for wear and is on the verge of falling apart. These serve as obvious cracks in Troy's life of ostensible luxury, but those familiar with the plot of Body Double might be inclined to read more deeply between the lines, recalling the unusual circumstances under which the similarly down-and-out actor of De Palma's thriller came to occupy the same building and questioning how much of that backstory also applies to Troy. We see a sign affixed to the now-derelict building, indicating that it is "For Sale By Owner", but who is the owner? Is it Troy himself, or has he, like Scully, simply been crashing in someone else's vacant pad ever since his own career hit the skids and his agent, MacArthur Parker (voice of Jeff Goldblum) ditched him as a hopeless case? For Scully, the induction into this building represented a new lease of life, for unbeknownst to him, the seemingly hapless actor has just landed the role of his career. Revelle functions as a sort of perverse casting agent, deliberately trailing Scully in order to size him up and ultimately cast him for the part of eyewitness in a thriller that seems almost too lurid and slickly-constructed to be true, and as it turns out there may be a good reason for that. The space-age properties of the setting give the film a purposely surreal air, one that provides hints as to the potentially illusory nature of the entire affair.
Above: At home with Troy. Below: Jake Scully (Craig Wasson) gets the abode of his wildest fantasies (quite literally?) in Brian De Palma's Body Double (1984).
In what plays like a direct inversion on the ending to Vertigo, Body Double concludes on a traditionally redemptive note, with Scully overcoming his claustrophobia, saving Holly from being murdered by Revelle and receiving his ultimate reward in the form of reinstatement to his role as erotic vampire Lothario in the sleazy picture that Rubin (Dennis Franz, aka our friend Warren Toomey from Psycho II) is filming. But it is a baffling ending that deliberately confuses fantasy and reality, prompting the viewer to question the authenticity of what they have just witnessed. Was the entire film nothing more than a fantasy concocted in Scully's head in order to help him through the claustrophobia that was impeding his ability to play the part of the vampire Lothario? De Palma certainly teases the viewer with the implication that we have never, in actuality, left the set of Rubin's film, only to further confuse it by showing Holly standing among the onlookers, assuring the actress playing the vampire's victim that she will get many dates when the film comes out and viewers get to ogle at the close-up shot of her breasts (which actually belong to her body double). However we interpret the events of film, we are led to what is effectively the same punchline, in that Scully's endeavours, and his willingness to step up and assume the role of the hero, whether in reality or within his imagination, have (from a professional standpoint) been in aid of securing his right to play a sexy vampire in a softcore pornography film. It is a victory for Scully, yet one the film is eager to undermine by immediately placing it within its proper perspective. This ending doesn't work for everyone (John Kenneth Muir, in his book Horror Films of The 1980s, accuses the film of closing on "a kind of B-movie, jokey note, and so Body Double ends up feeling like a lark, instead of a mesmerizing thriller"), but the film remains doggedly** committed to the theme of deception, right down to attempting (audaciously?) to turn it back on the viewer at the finish.
In Troy's case there's been no such redemption, however minimal. Neither hero, witness or vampire, he has simply been walled off and forgotten, cut off from humanity in his UFO-like abode, which gives him the illusion of being elevated above the fickle earthlings who rejected him and drove him into a life of solitude, and which now stands upon the verge of tumbling down. If Troy was put up by an owner with intentions as nefarious as Revelle's, they clearly gave up on him a long time ago.
The allusions to De Palma's film in "Fish" likewise heighten our awareness of the episode's own preoccupations with duplicity, and what this might mean in terms of Troy's relationship with Selma. Blatantly, it's as hollow and plastic as every other facet of Troy's public persona, but the extreme hoopla generated over something as trivial as a washed-up actor being spotted in public with a female is enough to prompt the question as to how far the public themselves are willing participants in the deception? There's an underlying sense that "everybody knows", but to what extent do they know that they know? The media and their viewership regard Selma and Troy much as they would characters in a daytime soap, less interested in authenticity than in watching them go through the motions and perform according to their expectations as a celebrity couple. For her part, Selma seems eager to assume what she sees as her new role in life, dressing herself up in the kind of flashy outfits she figures the wife of a major movie star would wear, which make her look particularly ridiculous whenever we catch her away from the press and mingling with the rest of the Simpson family. But then Selma seems to understand all too well that this arrangement is all about surface appearances. When Marge and Patty come clean with Selma about her marriage to Troy being a sham, Selma gets defensive, but she really doesn't appear all that shocked by the suggestion. It's obvious that the thought has already occurred to her. For one thing, she's painfully aware of the fact that Troy seems determined not to sleep with her, or even have very much to do with her at all behind closed doors, prompting Selma to suspect (erroneously) that Troy might be gay. When she finally confronts Troy on the matter, he plays it entirely cool, admitting to the ruse and insisting that she shouldn't see it as an issue. Is this another facet of Troy's manipulation, or does he genuinely see nothing unusual or objectionable about the concept of a loveless marriage? I'm inclined to think the latter, given just how much Troy seems to struggle with human relationships in general (see below). Furthermore, Troy suggests that their sham marriage is essentially no different from what every other married couple is doing, but refuses to acknowledge: "The only difference between our marriage and everyone else's is, we know our's is a sham...sure, you'll be a sham wife, but you'll be the envy of every other sham wife in town." And it works - Selma is initially convinced that she can tolerate the situation, in exchange for the benefits of being attached to a Hollywood hotshot. Things get complicated, however, when Parker advises Troy that he's in the running for the much-coveted role of McBain's sidekick in the upcoming blockbuster, McBain IV: Fatal Discharge (hmm, nice title), and that he'll up his chances considerably if he and Selma can create some additional publicity by having a baby. For Troy, landing a role of this magnitude would surely cement his comeback, so of course he's game (although he later struggles with the entire reproductive ritual), but Selma realises that this is where she ultimately must draw the line. As much as she's always wanted to be a mother, she recognises that it would be unfair to bring an innocent child into their duplicitous lifestyle, and decides at this point that she and Troy must go their separate ways.
"A Fish Called Selma" ends on a surprisingly poignant note, one of the most authentically tear-jerking in the entire Simpsons canon. It has an emotional clout that quite sneaks up on you, making you realise just how invested you've actually been in this ill-fated non-relationship. Troy and Selma may have zero chemistry as a couple (their first date, where neither of them is putting on any kind of act, is hilarious in its unabashed tedium), but they've developed a clear co-dependency, being the closest that each of them figures they can have to an actual marital companion, and the episode treats its dissolution with the solemnity it deserves. We all know what Selma's vulnerabilities are, so she has our sympathies secured. As for Troy, he doesn't exactly come off well in this episode, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel for the washed-up deviant. He's so accustomed to the phoniness of showbiz, and to always having to smile and wave his way through everything, that he's lost his ability to form real emotional connections with other human beings, assuming that he ever had it in the first place. His penultimate line to Selma - "Like that time we built that snowman together in that Newport ad? Remember how alive with pleasure they said we were?" - is genuinely heartbreaking, because it's clear that this is the most sincere he can possibly be in attempting to forge such a connection. Selma's parting words to Troy - "I'll always remember you, but not from your films" - are equally devastating; on the surface, this is an obvious play on Troy's catchphrase, but more crucially Selma offers Troy a rare snapshot of authenticity, promising him that she'll remember him for who he actually is, as opposed to the false persona he is accustomed to putting on while being observed through an onlooker's camera lens. But who is the real Troy? Did Selma even have the chance to get acquainted with him, given how little he wanted to have to do with her when away from the cameras? It's a gesture that has Troy utterly floored, and he can only watch in silence as Selma makes her way back down to planet Earth, leaving him stranded up in his ridiculous spaceship abode. Troy casts such a sad and lonely figure in the final scene; the impression you come away with is that neither side of his public image, be it the glamorous movie star or the depraved fish fetishist, has managed to fully represent him as a human being - somewhere in between there's a pathetic, terminally indifferent guy whose only real joy in life seems to derive from his strange, potentially kinky feelings toward aquatic lifeforms. He's entirely convincing as the kind of person who was caught masturbating in a public aquarium and never recovered, either professionally or personally, from the horrors of being outed as a weirdo.
In an epilogue that plays during the end-credits, we learn that Troy was offered the role of McBain's sidekick anyway, but turned it down to direct and star in his own pet project, The Confabulous Fabtraption of Professor Horatio Hufnagel. Despite 20th Century Fox's willingness to back the project, it's safe to say that this won't be seeing the same kind of bucks as Fatal Discharge. Most people see this as indicative of Troy cracking up after losing Selma and starting down a very self-destructive path that will undoubtedly lead him right back into oblivion (thus resetting the status quo), but I think there's a more optimistic way of interpreting this ending. Troy's experience with Selma may actually have taught him something about sincerity, prompting him to reject the phoniness of Hollywood and make the picture he's always wanted to make, even if its commercial viability is highly questionable. Finally, Troy is about to bare his real self before the world, in all its idiosyncratic, maladjusted glory. In a way, this is Troy's equivalent of an ending in which he gets to ride off into the sunset, or rather drift off into the clouds with a confabulous fabtraption strapped to his back. He truly belongs in another galaxy.
Anyway, I hate to close on such an upsetting note, particularly on Valentine's Day, but life doesn't always have happy endings - on 28th May 1998, Phil Hartman was shot and killed in a domestic dispute by his wife, Brynn Omdahl, who subsequently turned the gun on herself. It's a sad story all-round. Troy McClure's last appearance in The Simpsons was in the Season 10 episode "Bart The Mother". Apparently, before his death Hartman had expressed interest in doing a live action feature film about Troy McClure - I have to admit that I'm skeptical as to whether such a project would ever have gone ahead, given that there were other attempts at Simpsons spin-offs that never got out the door (on the DVD commentary, they talk about how great it would have been to make the picture, which is easy to say when there's no chance of it happening), although Hartman is one of the few Simpsons voice actors that I could see being able to convincingly portray his character in live action. You know what kind of Troy McClure picture I would dig? A mockumentary along the lines of Lost in La Mancha (2002) about his attempts to get The Confabulous Fabtraption of Professor Horatio Hufnagel off the ground. Or heck, maybe even The Confabulous Fabtraption of Professor Horatio Hufnagel itself. The more I think about it, the more I think the world needs a film so delightfully, weirdly inane. What's the closest thing we currently have? The Adventures of Baron Munchausen?
* I do seem to recall an episode in which a character (Mayor Quimby?) randomly blurts out, "The chick from The Crying Game is really a man!"
** Speaking of dogs, there's a psychopathic one in Body Double, which was trained by the master of wrangling psychopathic dogs, Karl Miller, whose work I previously looked at here. I guess we can also add Body Double to the list of possible films that Sadness from Inside Out might be referring to when she describes "the funny movie where the dog dies." The dog falls into reservoir along with Revelle at the end of the film; I don't think either of them survived.
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