If you’re looking for a comfortable, easily digestible thriller with clear-cut heroes and villains, Munich is going to be a tough sit. This 2005 film, now two decades old, finds Steven Spielberg operating at a peak level of craft, but it’s a cold and angry kind of mastery. It’s a dense, paranoid, and deeply unsettling historical drama that feels less like a movie and more like a wound that’s been picked at for years. Based on the book Vengeance, the film dramatizes the secret Israeli mission, “Operation Wrath of God,” to hunt down and assassinate the Palestinian militants responsible for the massacre of 11 Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. But here’s the kicker: this isn’t an action movie about a bunch of spies getting revenge and feeling good about it. Spielberg isn’t making a war film about who is right and who is wrong. Munich is a film about the ugly, corrosive nature of state-sponsored violence and the way it eats away at the soul of everyone involved. It’s a thriller, sure, but the tension isn’t built around whether the team will succeed, but around the psychological and moral cost of their success. There’s no triumph here, no victory lap—just the sinking realization that for every target they eliminate, the wound in the world only seems to get deeper.

The movie is anchored by a phenomenal performance from Eric Bana as Avner, the team’s leader. He’s a man of deep patriotism, handpicked for this mission by Prime Minister Golda Meir (Lynn Cohen) herself, but he’s completely unprepared for the psychological toll the job will take. He’s joined by a fantastic ensemble that includes Daniel Craig as a brutal and cold-blooded South African operative, and Mathieu Kassovitz as a toymaker turned reluctant bomb expert. They’re a tight, desperate group, and as they move from one European capital to the next, meticulously planning and executing assassinations, the initial sense of righteous duty slowly curdles into paranoia, guilt, and nihilism. The film doesn’t shy away from the violent acts, but it presents them not as a cause for celebration, but as messy, brutal affairs that often have unintended, horrific consequences—like a scene where a bombing intended for a target gets dangerously close to an innocent child. You can feel the weight of every decision pressing down on these men, and Spielberg makes sure you sit with that discomfort rather than brushing past it for the sake of pacing.

One of the most crucial—and still controversial—aspects of Munich is its willingness to humanize the Palestinian perspective. This isn’t a film that paints the Black September terrorists as caricatures of evil. In one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Avner and a PLO member named Ali (Omar Metwally) engage in a tense, philosophical debate about their respective claims to the land. Avner warns that the world will see the Palestinians as “animals” for their actions, to which Ali chillingly replies, “Yes, but then the world will see how they’ve made us into animals. They’ll start to ask questions about the conditions in our cages.” The film doesn’t excuse the terrorism, but it forces the audience to understand the desperation and statelessness that fuels it, presenting a horrifying symmetry where both sides see themselves as victims fighting for survival. It’s a gutsy move for a mainstream Hollywood director, especially in the mid-2000s, and it’s precisely that moral even-handedness that made the film so divisive upon release—and still makes it so damn compelling today.

And that’s where this film connects to a larger, darker moment in Spielberg’s career. Munich was released at the tail end of what some critics have rightly called his “Post-9/11 triptych,” alongside Minority Report (2002) and War of the Worlds (2005). These aren’t just three random films. They are all steeped in a profound sense of paranoia and fear of the outsider that was so prevalent in America after 9/11. Minority Report imagines a society where you’re arrested for a crime before you commit it; War of the Worlds literalizes the fear of a sudden, devastating attack on American soil; and Munich transposes those anxieties onto the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Spielberg used this triptych to explore the American psyche’s newfound sense of vulnerability and its willingness to embrace extreme, morally ambiguous measures—like torture and preemptive strikes—in the name of security. It was a director grappling with a changed world, and Munich, with its focus on a secret, government-approved assassination squad, feels like his most potent and cynical entry in the series. You can almost hear the echo of post-9/11 rhetoric in every scene, as if Spielberg was holding up a dark mirror to his own country’s creeping acceptance of extrajudicial killing.

But the bleakest part of Munich is how it transcends even that specific historical and political moment. The film relentlessly returns to the theme of the “violence loop.” The team assassinates one target, and he is immediately replaced by someone even more radical. They get a hit, and there’s a retaliatory bombing. It’s a terrifyingly accurate depiction of what has continued to happen for decades after the film’s events. Avner realizes that their entire operation, the endless cycle of state-sponsored revenge, is ultimately pointless for achieving peace. It’s a desperate, bloody game of whack-a-mole that only ensures the conflict continues in perpetuity, a cycle of vengeance that simply feeds on itself. As the film shows, and as is still plain to see today, the violence doesn’t end when the “list” is completed; it just regenerates. The final scenes, where Avner finds himself unable to even sleep in his own bed, watching his young daughter with a haunted look, drive home that the real casualty of state-approved assassination isn’t just the targets—it’s the humanity of the people pulling the trigger. He’s won the tactical war, but he’s lost every single battle that actually mattered.

Ultimately, Munich is a masterclass in filmmaking that offers no easy answers, and watching it today, with the current geopolitical landscape looking more fractured than ever, its relevance hasn’t faded one bit—if anything, it’s sharper and more painful now than it was in 2005. The same arguments, the same grievances, the same bloody score-settling between Israel, the Palestinians, and their Arab allies are still playing out in real time, with no end in sight. And yet, for all its brutal honesty, the film also exposes a tragic truth: this movie, like so much of the discourse surrounding the conflict, will probably only deepen the divide between the two groups watching it, as each side can point to it and say, “See? That’s what they do to us. That’s our pain validated.” It becomes another piece of ammunition in an endless argument rather than a bridge toward understanding. The brilliant cinematography from Janusz Kaminski and the chilling, minimalist score from John Williams only add to that oppressive, paranoid atmosphere, making it not a film that will make you feel good about anything, but one that will make you think—and perhaps that’s exactly why it remains so damn relevant decades later.

So what’s the way out? The film doesn’t give you a manual, but it does whisper a desperate question between its frames: can either side actually step back from the brink long enough to see the loop they’re both trapped in? Because the violence loop isn’t a natural disaster—it’s a human creation, and what humans build, humans can theoretically unbuild. But that would require something infinitely harder than pulling a trigger or planting a bomb—it would require acknowledging that your own righteous suffering doesn’t cancel out the other side’s legitimate pain, it would require looking at the face of your enemy and seeing not a monster but a person who also loves their children and believes they’re fighting for survival. The film dares to suggest that the only real break in the cycle might come from exhaustion, from the sheer soul-crushing fatigue of burying one more generation, or from a moment of radical, almost insane empathy that makes someone say “enough” before the next retaliation.

Spielberg doesn’t offer that moment in the movie, because he knows it hasn’t happened yet in real life—Munich isn’t a prescription; it’s an autopsy. Every few years, when the news cycle inevitably rolls around to another flare-up in that tortured corner of the world, this movie comes back to mind not as a prophecy, but as a painfully accurate diagnosis. It’s a powerful, haunting reminder that the echo of old violence is never truly silent, and that in the long run, vengeance is often a debt that can never be repaid. If you go in expecting a straightforward revenge fantasy, you’ll walk out exhausted and conflicted. But if you go in ready to wrestle with some of the ugliest questions about justice, morality, and state power, then Munich will stick with you like a splinter you just can’t dig out—and maybe, just maybe, that splinter is the first tiny crack in the loop that someone, someday, will have the courage to break.