We were talking about sex, as one will do during a dinner party, and I was waxing verbose about my “thing”: sex is precious; sex creates intimacy in ways we don’t understand; sex experienced without the commitment of love can and will do damage. And we discussed how sex is used in film, time and again, to titillate and excite or—worse—as a kind of shorthand to indicate that two people are in love. In most movies, sex represents only a fulfillment of corporeal desire; the act itself is disposable, related only to the moment—a temporal link whose passing leaves both parties unfettered and free. This is poor writing, shoddy artistry, and just plain old.

Then Karl asked an excellent question, one that really made me think. “Can you think of a film in which sex is used well?”

My answer? Steven Spielberg’s Munich (2005). His film, a story of revenge, terrorism and pacifism, again and again suggests that the body—its beauty, needs, fulfillment, and loss—is deeply connected with the state of the soul.

The most pervasive proof of this connection is actually not sexual, but gustatory. Avner, who leads a ring of hit men on a revenge-mission for Israel, is passionate about food. In virtually every scene where the men meet to discuss their plans, Avner prepares a mouth-watering spread. At least eight different dishes cover the table at each meal—steam rises, colors mingle, and the audience’s mouth waters.

With these meals, of course, comes wine, and it comes in other places as well: whenever the men celebrate a successful assassination, deliberate over their next hit, or weigh the price of their actions. Such savory images alone should rouse us, sending us scurrying off to a fine restaurant.

But Spielberg does not casually include such images of food and drink imagery. They contribute to a larger theme which begins to emerge during the first assassination. Avner and a partner confront their target in the hallway of his apartment building. He stands before the elevator, his arms loaded with groceries. After confirming that they do indeed have the right man, the hit men open fire. The man collapses, his body shot through with bullets. The hit men flee the scene and the camera cuts back to the silent hallway, where blood and milk seep towards one another, then slowly mingle on the floor.

Milk here symbolizes innocence, and for Avner and his colleagues, innocence is over.

But the milk also calls to mind an earlier introduction, one that returns us to the film’s sexual dimension. We first meet Avner’s expectant wife in the home, before Avner has decided to leave on a quest to avenge Israeli deaths at the Olympics. Avner and his wife make love in a fairly vivid scene, but the scene’s passion successfully demonstrates their deep love for one another, a love visible across plenty of other scenes; the fact that she is very pregnant underscores their commitment to one another.

This commitment shows up again while Avner is far from home. After a good day’s stalking in London, the hit men spend the night in a hotel. They are each struggling, to different degrees, with the guilt of their actions. Like the blood mixed with the milk, the repeated killings have slowly altered the color of their consciences. Avner stops at the hotel bar for a drink, only to be tempted by a beautiful woman. His attraction to her is clear, and when she invites him to her room, the temptation is real. But Avner remains faithful to his wife.

Later that night, this woman successfully tempts and then murders another of the hit men. Though a practical means of gaining an advantage, sex in this instance also graphically reiterates the body/soul connection. The woman used physical temptation to permanently sever the soul from its corporeal host, and when Avner and a partner exact revenge against this woman, they deliberately leave her beautiful, naked corpse exposed. Why? The characters’ rationale is implicit: her nakedness exposes the shame of her actions. In leaving her body unclothed, the men try to demean and punish the crime of her soul.

But the starkest use of sex by far comes in one of the closing scenes. Avner, haunted by what he has done and the fear of reprisals against his family, nevertheless tries to create a normal life for his wife and baby daughter. Unfortunately, the guilt of repeated murders pulls at his conscience: the murder of enemies and loss of friends play and replay in his mind. Again he makes love to his wife, but this time the love scene is intercut with images of the Israeli and Palestinian deaths that spurred him to vengeance.

Tenderly, and in an effort to reclaim her husband’s attention and turn his mind from these images, his wife touches his cheek and says, “I love you.”

The sexual intimacy has a place here. The love of a wife for her husband—and his faithful love for her—is appropriate. But so is what Spielberg shows us of the soul’s guilt and its power to overtake the body. Avner can no longer love his wife with his entire body and soul: he has lost some of his own soul in the blood and life lost by others.