A Close Second to God : WOODY ALLEN: A Biography, <i> By Eric Lax (Alfred A. Knopf: $24; 377 pp.)</i>

Woody Allen’s autobiography! Witty, of course. Vulnerable, too, but perhaps the reader would be able to see, behind the artist’s sensitivity, his shrewdness, his tough-mindedness, even his hard-heartedness as he protects and defends his work. The reader might also find out whether the transformation of the parochial Brooklyn Jew into the definitive Manhattan Man was complete, and what makes this jock, pal, husband, lover, father, magician, musician, stand-up comic, essayist, actor, screenwriter and director tick. Wow, what a book!

Except it was a book that wasn’t written. Woody Allen, who apparently guards his privacy so zealously that he walks around town with a false mustache, is too guarded to reveal himself in an autobiography, too circumspect to shout: Look at me!

Instead, he had Eric Lax do it for him. Not a bad idea. There have been some first-rate celebrity biographies--Gerold Frank’s “Judy,” Scott Meredith’s “George S. Kaufman and His Friends”--that illuminate the human being behind the artist and interpret the art while still maintaining that there- is- no-business-like-show-business liveliness of spirit.

Unfortunately, “Woody Allen: A Biography” is not in this class, even though the author got a break that few biographers receive: the privilege of spending three years (through the making of five films) with Allen. The film maker, Lax recounts, let him in on “all aspects of his work. . . . He also detailed his childhood and adult life. . . . He would have no control over or approval of the text.”

What a boon! No wonder Lax jumped at the offer. Except he did not jump far enough. Throughout this book, the author is so close to his subject, so deferential, that it reads more like the work of an erudite fan-club president than a true biographer. The subject and his lady are “Woody” and “Mia.” Chummy. But although first-name familiarity is dandy for friendship, it shows a lack of distance, an absence of perspective.

It is hard not be awed. Woody Allen is more than simply another actor or writer or director. In an industry given to hyperbole, where simple courtesy is labeled saintliness, where everyday neuroses are irrefutable evidence of an artistic temperament, and where commonplace intelligence is called genius, Allen is considered, if not God, at least a Close Second.

More than any other American film maker, Woody Allen is an authentic auteur. And his range: It is so broad that his filmography (which is not included) embraces such disparate works as the rollicking “Sleeper,” the romantic “Annie Hall,” the endearing “Broadway Danny Rose” and the solemn/comical philosophical inquiry into the nature of evil, “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

However, it is the biographer’s job to appreciate, not to venerate; to explain, not to defend. Movie making may be a collaborative art; biography is not. Yet Lax and his subject collaborated--helped now and then by friends and colleagues such as Mia Farrow; Allen’s shrewd and devoted producers, Jack Rollins and Charles H. Joffe; cinematographer Sven Nykvist. If now and then there is criticism, it is muted--and affectionate.

But although Woody Allen may wear a false mustache on his outings, the public knows him: He is the ultimate urbanite who prefers pavement to grass; the faithful film maker whose crew returns his loyalty and works with him in film after film. Lax presents this familiar Allen, and does a good job of filling in the blanks of biographical data.

But is there a tougher truth? It is never sought. The author’s sources share his reverence. Sam Waterson recounts with deference the famous Allen directorial style: an antipathy to rehearsals; no explanations of why he is dissatisfied with an actor’s performance. “We are accustomed as a class to living in a deluded world where the actor is the center of everything while he is being used. I find Woody’s approach so refreshing, even though it is unsettling.”

Why not really unsettle? Why not interview Michael Keaton, whom Allen fired from the Jeff Daniel’s role in “The Purple Rose of Cairo” after 10 days of shooting?

And women: We hear from Allen’s lover, his best friend, his film editor. But what about Allen’s first wife, Harlene Rosen? Was she ever interviewed? Did she refuse an interview? (She once sued Allen and NBC for $1 million, claiming his jokes defamed her.) Their entire relationship--including a recounting of Henny Youngman-style wife jokes--is told solely from Allen’s point of view.

Readers don’t require a Kitty Kelleyesque dishing of dirt; they simply want an understanding deeper than that offered by the predictable He Outgrew Her. But that is all that Allen has to offer, and ditto for Lax. Thus, their joint venture works to the detriment of “Woody Allen.”

Woody Allen--born Allan Stewart Konigsberg--may have re-created himself when he changed his name. But what about the family that created him in the first place? It sounds as if it wasn’t always a barrel of laughs. The author quotes his subject on his parents’ bickering: They had “a totally contentious relationship. They did everything except exchange gunfire.”

Allen’s words display both his gift for badinage and the sadness behind the smart words; they are qualities that make his humor so appealing. But although Lax dutifully reports, in prose far less sparkling than Allen’s, that “Money was an obvious and continual problem, as Martin was free with it and Nettie frugal,” the reader has no clear understanding of who these two people were and are.

What are their thoughts about their son, their relationship to him and his own son, their grandson, Satchel? Where do they fit in? Lax relates, rather off-handedly, that although the couple “adored” Louise Lasser, Allen’s second wife, they were given “a couple of hours’ notice of the event but not an invitation to the marriage ceremony . . . “--although the bride’s parents did attend.

What caused this breach? Was Allen responding to some slight on his parents’ part? Some profound injury? Could it have been an oversight? Was he embarrassed that his Outer Borough parents lacked the Manhattan style of the Fifth Avenue Lassers?

And how does this apparent snub gibe with the fact that Allen has sent “the bulk” of his prizes, including his Oscars, to his parents? Is this a way of apologizing for the omission? Does the gesture show his greatness of soul or his contempt for the Academy and its honors? There are no answers, and that is because the author does not do what a biographer must: seek the whole truth.

Even though references to Jewishness permeate Allen’s work--Woody Allen in side-curls and Hasidic garb in “Annie Hall,” the stupnagel rabbi in “Radio Days” and so forth--Lax argues, as does his subject, that Allen’s changing his name doesn’t imply the least hint of self-denial. He adopts Allen’s argument that his background is not the source of his humor (“You also don’t have to be Jewish to love Woody Allen. More specifically, he did not have to be Jewish. That he was was incidental.”). He buys Allen’s assessment of his ethnicity: “ ‘I was not interested in being Jewish,’ he says. ‘It just didn’t mean a thing to me. . . . It was a nonfactor to me.’ ”

Accordingly, Lax seems more Allen’s amanuensis than his biographer, transcribing what he is told, even when the assertion is ludicrous: “Woody writes his prose pieces . . . on a legal pad while lying on his bed, the pencil and his nose (italics added) pressed to the pad as he puts words in, takes words out. . . .”

While even a first-rate biography by a polished writer, such as Patricia Bosworth’s “Montgomery Clift,” cannot add to a subject’s stature, it can make the subject come alive; it can elucidate his art, illuminate his times, interpret his history. But unlike even the most prosaic celebrity bios, books like Charles Higham’s “Bette,” Eric Lax’s “Woody Allen,” accepts Allen on his own terms. Because these terms are so overly generous, the biography diminishes him.

The book sparkles only when it shows Allen working, making movies--not talking about making movies. But too often, the author is willing to accept his subject’s view of his own work without dissent or comment: “He considers (‘Stardust Memories’) his best film by far to that point, yet it was greeted with a collective gasp from many viewers and critics who thought Woody was mocking them in his Fellini-like use of actors with uncommon or even distorted faces who grasped and clawed at his character. To him, the film was about a comedian and filmmaker on the verge of a nervous breakdown who saw the world in a distorted way, and he succeeded in direction and style to step up to another level.”

In the end, the biography made this reader rush to the local video store, rent “Radio Days” and sit, once again, mesmerized by the genius of this idiosyncratic film maker. Unfortunately, this compulsion to review the movie was due not to having gained insight into Allen’s life and talent, but rather as reassurance that the not-very-likable man portrayed in “Woody Allen,” the self-justifying, anxiety-ridden, controlling kvetch is capable of creating breathtaking art. Well, he is.