Exploitation films were famous for taking an issue an exploiting

Host: The projector light flickered across the peeling red walls of the old theater, casting a ghostly shimmer on the dust that hung in the air. Rows of empty velvet seats stretched out like forgotten graves, and on the cracked screen, a grainy film trailer stuttered its way through slogans — “Shocking! Daring! The Truth They Don’t Want You to See!”

In the dim glow, Jack sat slouched in the second row, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his expression carved with amusement and fatigue. Jeeny stood a few seats away, her arms crossed, her silhouette outlined by the trembling beam of the projector.

The film cut off suddenly, the reel flapping in its final loop. The room fell silent, except for the soft hum of the old machine and the faint hiss of the cigarette as Jack tapped it against the armrest.

The world outside the theater — all glass and algorithms — seemed very far away.

Jeeny: (quietly, quoting) “Robert Rodriguez once said, ‘Exploitation films were famous for taking an issue and exploiting it because they could move much faster than a studio could. If there was any hot topic, they would run out and make a quick movie and make a buck on it, by changing it around and using it, in some way, to give some relevance.’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Yeah, the great American hustle. Art on adrenaline, truth on sale.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you admire it.”

Jack: “In a way, I do. There’s honesty in that kind of dishonesty. At least exploitation films never pretended to be pure.”

Jeeny: “You mean they wore their greed like a badge.”

Jack: “Exactly. Studios dress it up as prestige. The grindhouse just called it Saturday night.”

Host: The projector flickered, its reel clattering softly. A faint beam of dust and light stretched between them — like memory itself trying to keep the room alive. The smell of old celluloid filled the space, warm, chemical, nostalgic.

Jeeny: “Still, don’t you think it’s sad? They took real pain, real issues — war, race, fear, lust — and turned them into spectacle.”

Jack: “Sure. But they reflected the hunger of the time. You want purity in art? Try silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s a convenient defense for exploitation.”

Jack: “No. It’s an acknowledgment of what we are. We don’t consume truth — we digest drama.”

Jeeny: (sighing) “So exploitation was just early social media.”

Jack: “Exactly. Only louder, messier, and with better music.”

Host: The light dimmed, then returned, flickering against Jeeny’s face. Her expression softened — torn between understanding and rejection. Jack’s cigarette smoke twisted upward, glowing blue in the projector beam. It looked like the spirit of the film itself rising, defiant.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? When art becomes opportunism, it loses soul. These films didn’t care about change — only shock.”

Jack: “Maybe. But shock is the first step toward awareness. People didn’t go to The Last House on the Left or Coffy expecting enlightenment. But they left seeing something they couldn’t unsee.”

Jeeny: “Fear and desire, you mean.”

Jack: “Exactly. The twin engines of every revolution.”

Jeeny: “Revolution? That’s a stretch.”

Jack: “No. Think about it. Studios built myths — perfection, heroes, happy endings. Exploitation films tore those myths open and shoved the world’s dirt inside. That’s truth, Jeeny — ugly, impulsive, and temporary.”

Host: The sound of rain began to patter faintly on the roof of the old theater. The echoes of it rolled down through the rafters, mingling with the hum of the machine — like applause from ghosts.

Jeeny: “You make it sound noble. But let’s be real — it was business. Exploitation filmmakers weren’t visionaries. They were opportunists.”

Jack: “Opportunists are visionaries. They just don’t have time to polish the message.”

Jeeny: “That’s a dangerous philosophy.”

Jack: “So is pretending that purity exists.”

Jeeny: (sits beside him) “You really think relevance can be bought?”

Jack: “Not bought. Borrowed. The trick is to make people feel like the world’s chaos belongs to them for ninety minutes.”

Jeeny: “That’s manipulation.”

Jack: “That’s cinema.”

Host: A faint flash of lightning illuminated the window, the silver reflection rippling across the empty seats. The air vibrated with the tension of the conversation — moral, creative, human.

Jeeny: “You know what bothers me most? That they profited off people’s pain — racial fear, war trauma, women’s bodies — they turned suffering into currency.”

Jack: “Yes. And yet, those same films gave visibility to what society tried to hide. Pam Grier kicked open a door that no studio dared to build. Those B-movie lenses caught the world’s hypocrisy before the A-listers even noticed it existed.”

Jeeny: (thoughtful) “So exploitation became exposure?”

Jack: “Exactly. The first rough draft of rebellion. You can’t refine what you haven’t yet dared to reveal.”

Jeeny: “You’re saying filth paved the way for truth.”

Jack: “Sometimes the dirt tells the story better than the cathedral walls.”

Host: The projector shut off suddenly, leaving only the soft sound of rain and the faint crackle of the cigarette. The darkness felt alive — thick, cinematic, waiting for a new scene to begin.

Jeeny: “But what about responsibility, Jack? Don’t artists owe something to the truth?”

Jack: “Sure. But truth isn’t sacred — it’s reactive. It grows teeth in the hands of anyone brave enough to hold it.”

Jeeny: “And exploitation was bravery?”

Jack: “Not always. Sometimes it was desperation. But desperation tells its own truth. You can feel when a movie’s made by someone with nothing to lose.”

Jeeny: “And everything to sell.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox. Commerce and conscience are cellmates in art. The best films don’t resolve that tension — they weaponize it.”

Host: A neon sign outside buzzed faintly through the rain, its reflection bleeding through the cracked glass doors. “Open,” it read — though the theater had been closed for years. The irony glowed like a metaphor.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, I think that’s why Rodriguez said they moved faster than studios — they weren’t weighed down by self-importance. They were raw, responsive. Like artists before the ego caught up.”

Jack: “Exactly. Speed was their honesty. They didn’t perfect the world — they reacted to it.”

Jeeny: “Still, there’s something tragic about that. Burning bright and brief, forgotten after the shock fades.”

Jack: “That’s art’s truest form — impermanent relevance.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that?”

Jack: “I do. The world changes too fast for masterpieces. All we can make are moments that sting.”

Host: The rain eased, and the theater lights flickered on, humming with a dull, amber life. Dust floated through the light like soft ash. For a moment, it looked as if the ghosts of old films — the cowboys, killers, and rebels — were drifting through the air.

Jeeny: (looking up at the screen) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe relevance is enough. Not permanence, not purity — just the courage to speak fast and imperfectly before the silence swallows everything.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s what the best exploitation films did — they screamed before the world could censor the echo.”

Jeeny: “Screamed for what?”

Jack: “For attention. For justice. For a paycheck. For the hell of it. Does it matter? It was a scream — and it was human.”

Host: The camera panned back, catching the two figures in silhouette against the faded glow of the blank screen. The room was a cathedral of lost art — its relics not marble and gold, but reels and smoke and noise.

The hum of the old projector continued softly, even though no film played.

And as the scene faded, Robert Rodriguez’s words echoed through the empty theater like dialogue from a film that never quite ended —

that exploitation was not corruption,
but acceleration;

that in chasing the hot topic,
artists sometimes stumbled into truth;

and that relevance — raw, rushed, imperfect —
is its own kind of revolution,

born not from purity,
but from the primal urge
to make meaning before the credits roll.

For art, like the world,
moves too fast to wait for saints —
and sometimes,
the first scream
is the only one that matters.