We live in a transitional era regarding relationship politics, as more people carve romantic and sexual lives for themselves outside the prescribed trajectory of love , marriage, procreation and nuclear family. The emergence of LGBT identities into the mainstream has had much to do with this, of course, but our collective understanding of opposite-sex partnerships —  those once deemed merely “normal” — is evolving too, alive to the complexities of bisexuality and open relationships. Screen romance, however, remains largely behind this curve, which is why Dag Johan Haugerud ’s new film “Love” feels, in its quiet, conversational way, rather radical: a tender, gently observed relationship study that places as much stock in casual sex as in seeking a soulmate. Following two very different medical professionals on their contrasting quests for intimacy, it’s the rare romantic drama that concedes one person’s happily-ever-after is not necessarily another’s.

Norwegian novelist and filmmaker Haugerud's fourth feature, "Love," is the second installment in a planned trilogy of self-contained yet interconnected films exploring contemporary sexuality and relationship dynamics. The first, "Sex," depicted the domestic fallout when a seemingly heterosexual, happily married man has a spontaneous sexual encounter with a male stranger and confesses it to his wife. Despite the titles, "Sex" and "Love" aren't rigidly defined by those terms, as both films delve into how these concepts can diverge and overlap in matters of the heart. (The third installment, "Dreams," remains a mystery in terms of its thematic focus.) Intriguing yet elusive, "Sex" premiered at the Berlin Film Festival's Panorama sidebar earlier this year, while "Love," arguably the warmer and more accessible of the two, benefits from the added exposure of a Venice competition slot. This may incentivize global arthouse distributors to prioritize "Love," which can be enjoyed without prior knowledge of its predecessor.

Set against the backdrop of a tranquil Nordic August, spanning three weeks, the film introduces its two protagonists in the rather commonplace setting of an Oslo hospital's urology department. Marianne (Andrea Bræin Hovig), an attractive doctor in her middle years, calmly explains a prostate cancer diagnosis to a patient, as her younger, tousled-haired nurse assistant, Tor (Tayo Cittadella Jacobsen), offers comforting support from the sidelines. As the doctor and nurse discuss the matter privately afterwards, we sense a natural, comfortable rapport between them, free from any hint of romantic interest. It turns out he's gay, she's straight, and while both are single, their romantic pursuits differ: She's interested in dating, while he's drawn to casual encounters, with little desire for anything long-lasting.

After a blind date with amiable, recently divorced geologist Ole (Thomas Gullestad), a friend of her own best pal Heidi (Marte Engebrigtsen), Marianne encounters Tor by chance on the ferry home — and is intrigued to learn that the boat is his preferred spot for meeting men. Suddenly, as she recounts her evening to her colleague, she surprises herself with a confession: “I wish I could have had sex with him tonight and never see him again.” For her, the very notion is an exciting subversion of romantic norms; for Tor, it is the norm.

As Marianne contemplates the possibilities of casual encounters — and weighs them against her conflicting feelings for Ole — Tor finds himself drawn into unexpected emotional territory by a ferry encounter with handsome, older psychologist Bjorn (Lars Jacob Holm, delivering a superb performance). A spark ignites between them, even though Bjorn admits to having no sexual desires; days later, they reunite at the hospital after Bjorn receives some bad news, and they begin to find alternative ways to support each other. Haugerud's effortlessly woven script isn't afraid to embrace coincidence and contrivance as its various narrative threads hover between insightful human observation and playful speculation. These interactions feel relatable even if they don't always seem entirely realistic.

The film is gratifyingly mature, with a light touch and a largely deadpan, off-kilter sense of humor that doesn't diminish the seriousness of the subject matter. A subplot involving Heidi, a municipal worker, played hilariously by Engebrightsen as a pill-popping hippie in disguise, who concocts increasingly neurotic plans for a sex-positive celebration of the city, subtly lampoons the occasional hypocrisies of deliberately progressive social politics, without becoming reactionary about it. The soft, summery pastels of Cecilie Semec’s cinematography and the loose, flutey jazz stylings of Peder Kjellsby’s score are in harmony with the film's mellow mischievousness; Hovig and Jacobsen's wry, observant lead performances similarly never overplay their hand.

"Love's" commentary on modern relationships may be more intricate and nuanced than simply "live and let live," but the film's calm acceptance of what works for each individual is refreshingly humane, rhetorically captivating, and more than a little alluring: We see how Marianne can benefit from embracing the unknown with no strings attached, just as Tor and Bjorn mutually benefit from a committed yet undefined form of companionship. It's a cool counterpoint to the days when "it's complicated" was the go-to descriptor for any relationship outside the conventions of heteronormative coupling. This breezy, sexy, thoughtful film demonstrates that deviating from the romantic comedy ideal can be easier than it seems, and a bit of fun too.