J. Randy Taraborrelli’s biography of Elizabeth Taylor, “Elizabeth” (Warner Books, 548 pages, $26.99), is biography as a corporate enterprise. Mr. Taraborrelli has an acknowledgments section that would do a CEO proud. He thanks his “support team,” “the true experts,” and “the researchers.” But that is not all: There are subcontractors in Rome, Paris, Hollywood, and other foreign parts. Nunziata Stornella, for example, recruited the Italian team. What exactly did the biographer do when he was not superintending his subordinates and their supervisors?

I thought perhaps Mr. Taraborrelli spent some time in the library. And maybe he did, although after describing “what seems like hundreds of manila folders” just for the year 1942, and explaining that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has similar folders for every year from 1942 to 2006 — so much that it would take a researcher years to examine — he thanks Jim Pinkston “for his research time at the Academy Library.”

Of course, biographers do employ researchers. But as any biographer who has gotten his hands dirty in the archives knows, you risk missing something if you don’t do it yourself. Libraries do not always catalog accurately and sometimes overlook vital materials in their possession. I’ve certainly had occasion to point out errors and discoveries to libraries that did not know what they had.

Mr. Taraborrelli has done some interviewing, and he writes that he has watched all of Ms. Taylor’s movies, including the made for TV variety. He once met Ms. Taylor and spends a few pages describing her and their brief conversation. Here is his testimony:

Indeed, much has been said and written about Elizabeth’s eyes. I can tell you that they are truly striking. Their violet beauty wasn’t all that caught my attention, though. As she introduced herself, I was struck by their indescribable complexity. It was as if I had been immediately presented with a great riddle: What history had those eyes taken in over the last half century, and how did she really feel about it?

I can imagine Mr. Taraborrelli saying this to himself, but why would he put it in a book?

Further on, Mr. Taraborrelli lets slip that this is an “unauthorized biography.” Ms. Taylor gave the biographer no interviews, but she apparently did not oppose his work. Indeed, he claims “she actually encouraged members of her inner circle to speak for it.” What? I’m not talking, but you talk? Evidently “one of Elizabeth’s closest family members” who confirmed certain details for the biographer was not so sure about Elizabeth’s feelings, since that relative requested that her name not appear in the source notes. And what was Heather Kirkpatrick, Warner Books’s “dedicated and precise attorney” up to when she dealt with Mr. Taraborrelli? The biographer does not say. Unauthorized biographies are often vetted — usually because the subject or the subject’s friends may pose a legal problem. To say the least, the bona fides of this biography are suspect.

And the biographer functions more like an arranger than an author. For example, the brief chapter on “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” begins by reporting that the film is “arguably, the Burtons’ greatest film achievement.” Nothing in this chapter bears out that claim except for what a few interviewees say along with Mr. Taraborrelli’s passing reference to what film scholars think.

When Mr. Taraborrelli attempts to make some sort of link between the stormy Burton-Taylor marriage and the conflicted union between George and Martha in Edward Albee’s searing masterpiece, the results are regrettable. He writes, “The acerbic personality of the character, along with the combative relationship she had with her husband, probably wasn’t as much of a stretch for Elizabeth to convey as she said it was in press interviews.” Mr. Taraborrelli goes on to describe a raucous, profane fight between Ms. Taylor and Mr. Burton on the movie set. She hurls a vase at him; he retaliates by launching a fruit bowl at her. But this is not the film! George and Martha engage in psychological warfare; it is their words that are cutting.

Ms. Taylor was courageous precisely because she was doing the role that Albee thought Bette Davis would play. He even included a Davis line: “What a dump!” Ms. Taylor knew she was playing the kind of role Davis had perfected and that there would be comparisons. Nothing in Ms. Taylor’s marriage to Burton could have been enough to prepare her for this demanding role. She had to find it in herself as an actress. But on the subject of acting, Mr. Taraborrelli is silent as a tomb.

This hodgepodge of a biography might be fun to dip into during a moment of boredom, but a full reading is likely to elicit, once again, that immortal line, “What a dump!”