IT'S STRANGE, but the Pink Panther is a very controversial animal. Sample a random number of reasonably intelligent people on what they think of these stupid Blake Edwards movies and you'll get replies ranging from, "I sleep through them" to "What wonderful pictures! Real fun and unpretentious, you know?" Although more boneheaded "auteurist" cinema scholars--Blake Edwards fans all--could probably give you a shot-by-shot analysis of this unsubtle director's technique, most critics will find it hard to be objective about Revenge of the Pink Panther. So much depends on one's mood, the setting, the company, and, of course, one's expectations. To discard all pretense of objectivity: I had a great time at Revenge, although a) I was in a good mood, b) in a crowded, happy theater, with c) someone I was fond of and d) I expected nothing.

In the last Panther movie, The Pink Panther Strikes Again (which I, on the other hand, detested), Edwards beat to death everything he had nearly beaten to death the year before in Return of the Pink Panther (which I, on the other hand, loved), all of which had been virtually beaten to death already.

The key, obviously, is Peter Sellers' bumbling Inspector Clouseau. Sellers, the most brilliant impersonator in movies, scores highest in constricted caracatures where much is made of a given character's lack of awareness (particularly personal awareness--a lack of self-consciousness). In other words, Sellers is at his best when he is smallest, and Clouseau's oblivious, unfazed determination is the perfect vehicle for him. But whenever these little men become romantic, as in Edwards' The Party or Strikes Again, Sellers begins to take himself more seriously (his narcissism, unfortunately, bleeds through even when these characters fumble their love-making attempts), and in Strikes Again he lost his timing and embarrassed himself. Edwards was lampooning Bond movies that time, and everything--including Sellers--was blown up to twice its size. Only the basic material remained thin, and Edwards stretched it until it snapped.

In Revenge, Edwards parodies The Godfather and The French connection, and--perhaps learning from his past mistakes--he keeps it domestic and visually smaller. He also lightens Seller's load by giving him a large and funny supporting cast, and the somewhat reduced chores enhance his appeal. Clouseau still mucks up his vowel sounds and takes a good many falls, but Edwards doesn't labor these gags as much as he did last time. One can hardly call him restrained, but he's comparatively restrained. Admittedly, the plot is harebrained and the climax, set in a fireworks factory, fizzles, but there is a silly, pleasantly ambling denouement in which we are not so much grateful for what Edwards does as for what he doesn't do.

THE GAGS? Will you shriek hysterically when the Oriental manservant Kato, trying to spy for his boss, Clouseau, disguises himself with a pair of glasses so thick that he keeps walking into things? I hate to admit it, but I did. Will you giggle helplessly when an assassin hands Sellers a round, black bomb with a sizzling fuse and tells him it's a special delivery package? Again, I plead guilty. How does Edwards get away with this old schtick? By keeping, I believe, his technique straightforward and limp, with no shock-cutting or screwy camera angles to jar us. Most of his shots are familiar medium-close-ups, underscored by Henry Mancini's familiar, likable Muzak.

Then there are the familiar, likable actors: the recently-revived Dyan Cannon (better than ever these days) as Clouseau's tag-along; the smooth, stylishly resonant Robert Webber (also not around in the last few years and also better than ever) as the heavy; and Herbert Lom, in the best of his Inspector Dreyfuss portrayals. There was too much of Lom in Strikes Again, and Edwards directed him badly, but here he's wired to short-circuit on sight of Clouseau, toppling over in hilarious catatonia.

But look, the movie itself is pretty irrelevant. This is what you do: take someone you love or like a lot out to dinner on a Friday or Saturday night. Have a modest meal--some medium-priced seafood, perhaps (lobster is okay if you can afford it)--and a carafe of Chablis. Don't overdo it: you should emerge a wee bit sloshed and pleasurably filled. Skip dessert (that's the movie). Then go see Revenge of the Pink Panther. Make sure the movie theater is filled (there's nothing more depressing than watching a Panther movie in an empty theater). What you do afterwards is your own business, but you'll probably feel good and giggly and "mellow," which ain't too bad a way to spend a humid night in August, as summer inches persistently into September, and we find ourselves less and less capable of experiencing Inspector Clouseau in such an idyllic atmosphere.