Opinion | ‘Dolemite Is My Name’ Takes Blaxploitation Seriously

In emphasizing both Rudy’s silliness and enterprising spirit, “Dolemite Is My Name” might reflect how much attitudes have changed since the Blaxploitation era died down in the late 1970s. At the time and for many years after, the films were wildly popular — and polarizing. There were many reasons to speak out against them: They almost always depicted black people in impoverished settings populated by pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers; they often wrapped the idea of black power in a superficial depoliticized bow; and, as the genre became more popular, black representation behind the scenes became minimal. “Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song” and “Shaft,” directed by Melvin Van Peebles and Gordon Parks, may be responsible for kicking off the genre, but the Blaxploitation films that followed and boasted black directors or writers were rare.

The N.A.A.C.P., Jesse Jackson and others campaigned for more “positive” portrayals on screen — like, say, “Cornbread, Earl and Me” or the rural family drama “Sounder.” Even some of the stars of the genre expressed a measure of regret over their participation: “The stereotypes that we have are often what we perpetuated ourselves,” Pam Grier, the star of “Foxy Brown,” said in the 2002 documentary “BaadAsssss Cinema.” “I broke them, but I also created some, because everyone thought a black woman is a whoop-your-butt sister all the time.”

Still, for a brief period, black performers were getting steady work. Audiences were seeing more black people on screens than ever before, and thanks to characters like John Shaft, Foxy Brown and Youngblood Priest in “Super Fly,” they were finally the heroes (and antiheroes). An entire generation of black artists have recalled fond memories of watching wild movies like “Dolemite” as children, and have lovingly spoofed the genre in their own films (“I’m Gonna Git You Sucka”; “Undercover Brother”). “They’re not these high-quality pictures,” Mr. Murphy recently told The New York Times. “But black people, ourselves, we were just excited to see ourselves. We never felt like they were exploitation.”

That tension between representation and exploitation is bubbling beneath the surface of “Dolemite Is My Name.” Even as he gains a following through his self-released albums and live performances, Rudy refuses to tone down his profane and highly sexual material for radio play and mainstream audiences. Instead, he hopes his comedy will “connect him with the people.” (Presumably, “the people” are not white or the black intelligentsia.) He’s not concerned about stereotypes — again, his character Dolemite is a pimp — but he does have an innate desire to inspire others like him, who might have the odds stacked against them. “I want the world to know I exist,” he says.

The final minutes of the film take place on the day of the “Dolomite” premiere. As Rudy and his friends and collaborators make their way in a limo, the reviews they read in the paper are harsh: “Dullemite,” one critic calls it. Yet when they get to the theater, an exuberant crowd awaits them. Rudy encounters a young fan who proudly boasts that he’s listened to all of his albums and copies his rhyme-play, except “I make it about me!”

The moment is unabashedly earnest and doesn’t attempt to engage with the valid critiques of the films, or the fact that most blaxploitation stars of the era struggled professionally and financially when Hollywood lost interest in telling black stories. But what it does conjure up is a re-evaluation of whose life gets to be the subject of dramatization — Rudy Ray Moore wasn’t a civil rights leader (“Malcolm X,” “Selma”), nor was he an extraordinarily talented performer or athlete (the James Brown biopic “Get On Up,” “Ali”).

And how: The recreation of the “Dolemite” scenes are silly, but Mr. Moore’s ambitions are taken seriously in “Dolemite Is My Name.” In Mr. Murphy’s performance the Blaxploitation star is never treated as caricature, but with respect and empathy (when that movie producer comments that Rudy looks “doughier” than the typical black leading man, pain briefly flickers across his face).