A t first the sanitation workers thought it was a bag of trash. It was only when the two men got a closer look did they realize what they had thought was a pile of garbage scattered beside the dumpster they had come to empty was, instead, the body of a woman lying on her side. It seemed as if she had been ‘dumped out of the sky.’ She was still breathing.”

Barbara Payton’s back…from beyond the grave, that is. Author John O’ Dowd has resurrected her beautiful corpse in this enormous, hypnotic true Hollywood B-movie horror runaway car-crash of a book, which is the most entertaining, sordid, emotional, sleaze-filled bio I’ve devoured in a long time. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s right up there with Kenneth Anger’s immortal 1960s masterpiece, Hollywood Babylon. And if John Waters hasn’t stayed up yet for a late night droolfest over this, I’d be pretty stunned. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT pass this book over (it’s only available online). Once you peruse this, you will not be able to put it down.

I first became aware of “Babs” in a great three-issue history of her 1950s tabloid antics (back when it really WAS rebellious) and self-destructive downfall in the pages of FilmFax about five years ago. Since then, I’ve been compelled to dig ’em up and re-read them over and over again. Not to belittle Frances Farmer’s horrible downfall, but Barbara Payton’s excess should be required textbook reading for every Lohan, Spears (the barely literate moronic Moose-keteer dimbulb) and Courtney “Lust” still on their way down into the depths of Hollywood Hades.

The legendary brawl ignited by Babs between Franchot Tone (one of Joan Crawford’s many ex-husbands) and Tom Neal (from Poverty Row classic film noir Detour) is one of Hollywood’s all-time top slugfests and the ensuing tabloid fallout is 100 times more interesting and deadly tragic than today’s current ‘Macca versus Mucca’ (Paul and Heather Mills) pathetic crybaby whinefests. Not only that, but O’Dowd went all out for this book—250 photos (Eeegah!!!) plus interviews with Bab’s loving son John Payton, ex-husbands, surviving family members and every sleazoid denizen of Sunset Bouevard who hadn’t croaked yet. There are even pictures of Barbara’s early- to mid-60s drink-and-drug hooker haunts scattered all over Sin City. Did I mention cameos by Brando, Dennis Hopper, John Gilmore and everyone’s fave drunken director in drag, Ed Wood? Mindboggling…and clearly a labor of capital-L Love.

I’ve only seen four of Barbara’s films.I Just recently finished off Trapped, where she co-stars with Lloyd “Sea Hunt” Bridges, and Bride of The Gorilla, where Raymond Burr gets a voodoo curse and goes “ape” in the jungle). I dug ’em all except for the incredibly boring sci-fi snoozefest, Four Sided Triangle, which was made by Hammer films before they finally got their shit together with Curse of Frankenstein in 1957. There’s something haunting and fascinating about watching Barbara Payton’s films knowing full-well what’s going to really happen to this amazing and once stunning bombshell of a woman. Will anyone really know why she did what she did? I dunno. She certainly had some incredible balls. There will NEVER be another like her.