The subject of “Love” is right there in the title. But that might be deceptively simple: Dag Johan Haugerud’s gently humanistic drama is one of those films that feels akin to a prism, refracting its theme into the array of colors it contains.

“Love,” one of a trilogy of films from the director set in Oslo (the others are named “Sex” and “Dreams”), braids a few stories into one another, the way its characters’ lives are woven together. The central strands are Marianne (Andrea Braein Hovig), a middle-aged urologist in Oslo, and the nurse who works most closely with her, Tor (Tayo Cittadella Jacobsen). She is straight; he is gay; they’re both single. One evening after work, they find themselves on a ferry to a neighboring island, where Marianne and her friend Heidi (Marte Engebrigtsen), who’s organizing the city’s centenary celebrations, are meeting with some people involved with the planning. (January 2025 marked 100 years since the name of the city was changed from Kristiania to Oslo.)

One of those people is Heidi’s friend Ole (Thomas Gullestad), a soft-spoken architect. Marianne and Ole vibe immediately. He’s divorced, with children, and his ex-wife lives next door. Marianne can’t deny her attraction to him, but the whole thing seems pretty complicated, and she doesn’t mind being alone. On the way back, though, she finds herself on the ferry with Tor, and they fall into a conversation about Tor’s relationship philosophy — one that’s much more casual and expansive than hers. She decides to try it out for herself.

Meanwhile, Tor meets Bjorn (Lars Jacob Holm) one night, then runs into him at the urology office, where he’s been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He finds himself falling into a different sort of relationship with Bjorn than he’s ever sought with another person. It turns out Tor and Marianne both have a lot of room to grow.

“Love” moves slowly through its languid moments, set against the backdrop of Oslo and its architecture. There’s a loveliness to every scene, quiet urban beauty that leaves space for the audience’s contemplation. Characters spend a lot of time conversing, with frankness, about their connections to others and themselves and about the ways they navigate the world. Sometimes during these conversations, the camera pulls back and drifts over the Oslo rooftops shining in the bright August sun.

The voices continue, but we’re observing a broader cross-section of the city, a reminder that these kinds of conversations are happening everywhere in town, all the time. People are interested in love, looking for love, swiping on their apps for love. And for each of those people, love looks a little different.

In some ways “Love” feels highly theoretical, each character demonstrating a different approach to finding sexual connection and romantic fulfillment. There’s the divorced couple maintaining their relationship for their children; the happy and occasionally smug monogamist; the man who prefers not to commit; the woman who can’t decide. Haugerud’s script is more or less free of judgment. If it veers a bit academic at times (how convenient that every character has a different perspective to share), it’s so beautiful that you want to just keep dwelling in its world.

This city, Haugerud tells us, is full of people who are different from one another but in pursuit of the same thing. Just like cities are everywhere.