While never boring, “Dropped Names” is in places more sketch than oil painting. The ode to Princess Diana, whom Langella never met, is a weak link, as is his opening chapter on Marilyn Monroe, which leads with the generic: “Remember when everything meant so much?” There are a few distracting repetitions, including at least 10 variations on the phrase “minimal makeup.” (Perhaps he’s spent so much time surrounded by stars in greasepaint that whenever he sees a woman’s pores, he exults.) But the book’s stylistic imperfections add to the sense that you’re reading the uncensored diary of an indefatigably social and curious man, a modern-entertainment-industry Samuel Pepys. Narcissistic? Sure. He grants that he was especially “selfish and obstreperous” in his youth. But he’s inspiringly game.

The word “slut” has been invoked in the public discourse as an ugly slur. But Langella’s book celebrates sluttiness as a worthy — even noble — way of life. When Bette Davis wants to have “racy phone conversations . . . rife with foreplay,” he agrees, because how could you not? When Elizabeth Taylor says, “Come on up, baby, and put me to sleep,” who is he to resist? (He does make her chase him first.) By his cheerful debauchery, Langella reveals something certain commentators have obscured: sluts are the best — hungry for experience and generous with themselves in its pursuit. He talks about how joyful it was in his 20s to “throw some scripts, jeans and a few packs of condoms into a bag,” and head out to do plays and bed theater ­apprentices.

There is so much happy sexuality in this book that reading it is like being flirted with for a whole party by the hottest person in the room. It’s no wonder Langella was invited everywhere.