On the film front: I watched the classic 1969 Cactus Flower with Ingrid Bergman, Walter Mathau, and a young Goldie Hawn. Still amusing, but undeniable quaint now. The "wild life" Bergman's old maid discovers (in her mink stole) looks... kinda sweet - a mildly hippy-dippy nightclub where two glasses of champagne is racy. I suspect the place might serve pot brownies, but it'd be Mom in the kitchen baking and they'd be served with warm milk. My companion's reaction was: "So that's how movies used to be. (pause) Nothing blew up."
The novel equivalent might be the series by D.E. Stephenson I'm re-reading: I just finished Mrs. Tim Christy, starting Mrs. Tim Carries On, which continues this British Army officer's wife's adventures into the early days of WWII. Not like that was what you could call an innocent time (genocide?), but daily life certainly seemed so.
I can only conclude that our own time will seem quaint too. To some future. Somehow.