We watched "The Pink Panther" the other night, which came out when I was eight years old. I believe that was the last time I had seen it. My husband objects to the gratuitous insertion of musical numbers into movies from this era, but the jazzy/samba lounge-singer scene in the ski lodge is the only bit I remembered from childhood, apart from the theme song and the tiny pink flaw in the great diamond.
The dancing looks like fun, even for poor hapless Peter Sellars, the comic cuckold. The people in these conventional American thrillers and comedies from the early 60s were so sophisticated and at ease in their society. There was nothing sullen or dreary about their rebellion.
The fellow presenting the movie remarked that David Niven expected his jewel-thief-Don-Juan character to become a successful franchise. No one guessed that Inspector Clouseau would steal the show.