Generally speaking, nuns are about as culturally relevant these days as telegrams, zeppelins, and Tony Danza. How often do you even see nuns anymore? And when you do see nuns, do you ever think, "Mmm, I'd like to Hail Mary a piece of that?" No. No you don't, because all nuns have to be at least 60 and reminiscent of Abe Vigoda in the looks department. Nonetheless, for a time in the 1970s a certain group of filmmakers and filmgoers all shared a beautiful dream -- that nuns were hot and either a) desperate to shed their religious oppression and clothes to engage in frolicky nun debauchery or b) two seconds away from a homicidal rampage at any given moment.
Shining Example: Images in a Convent
Italian director Joe D'Amato, mostly known for horror movies produced on a budget that wouldn't get you a pair of Nyke sneakers at a ghetto flea market, gave us one of the best examples of nunsploitation. (I'm using the word "best" in the same way you'd use it to describe the different shits you see in a zoo. Like "The elephant clearly has the best shit, it can bury a man whole.")