How do you define love? Is it a biological process or a psychological reaction? Perhaps it is a socially mandated act of seeking out a partner, or a philosophical craving to have some kind of companion. The reality is that there are more questions than there are answers when it comes to discussing love and everything that surrounds it – which is why it is so easy to appreciate what Dag Johan Haugerud is doing with the aptly-titled Love (Norwegian: Kjærlighet), the final entry into his recent trilogy of films that have somehow managed to encapsulate the entirety of the human condition through simply engaging in spirited discussions, unearthing the deepest secrets that drive human existence forward and make it so incredibly compelling. It follows Sex and Dreams in being a dialogue-driven story about ordinary characters living and working in contemporary Oslo as they begin to question the world around them, as well as their place within it. In this case, we have dual protagonists – Marianne is a doctor in the urology wing at Oslo Hospital, while Tor is a nurse in the same department. As colleagues, they get along very well – but a late-night ferry ride allows them to reveal their secrets to one another. Marianne has recently been introduced to Ole Harald, a newly-divorced single father who is seeking out a companion to help him regain a sense of normality in his life, while Tor has become disenchanted by the cold emotional detachment that comes with anonymous hookups, choosing instead to find a man that can actually understand him, and very soon encounters Bjørn, who may be a couple of decades older than him, but has a sweetness and sensitivity that Tor finds absolutely irresistible. A beautifully poetic and heartfelt blend of gentle humour and melancholic drama, Love is a wonderful addition to both this trilogy (being a fitting final chapter, particularly in how it effectively summarises the core themes of the previous two films in a subtle but remarkably compelling way), as well as the ongoing rise in prominence of this particular brand of Norwegian cinema, where simple, evocative conversations are enough to drive an entire narrative all on its own.

As we’ve mentioned, love is not a concept that easily lends itself to a single story. It’s simply not a subject that anyone can lay claim to having a definitive interpretation of – but certainly not for lack of trying. There’s something very interesting about what the director is doing here, which is essentially reducing love to nothing but biological urges. This is perhaps the most fundamental description that we can give the experience of falling in love, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be limited to this. Instead, Haugerud uses this as the foundation for a story that explores the impossible nature of romance and how it can take so many different forms. There are duelling perspectives here, with the idea being to explore the act of not only falling in love, but also maintaining it, from two different viewpoints – one through the eyes of a character who has previously known what it means to truly love someone, but who has become jaded by the heartbreak to the point where the perfect partner presents himself, but she is hesitant to pursue it, while the other is a man who has never been able to commit, and has enjoyed skirting along the edges of romance without actually succumbing to it himself, only to find someone who reminds him of the value of commitment and the beauty in settling down, something he had previously resisted on principle. It’s a fascinating approach, especially in how the director intentionally inverts the dynamic – whereas Marianne becomes freer, adopting a laissez-faire mentality to how she embraces romance, Tor becomes more focused, which opens up the potential for a fascinating discussion on fidelity and monogamy. Haugerud is certainly not someone who advocates for unfaithfulness or living a life defined by reckless behaviour, but he is also not interested in presenting some utopian version of society, and instead seeks to underline the imperfections that make these people relentlessly and unapologetically human, those small flaws that will be familiar to many of us. In the process, Love proves to be an exceptionally moving portrait of romance in its various forms, handcrafted by a director who understands all the nuances that accompany the subject matter.

Haugerud is a very gifted filmmaker, and something that he has shown to be a remarkable strength is not only his ability to touch on very human themes, but also creating characters that act as fully-realised vessels for the stories and their underlying themes. As with the other two entries into the trilogy, Love is built on the performances delivered by the gifted cast – and while most of them are working actors that aren’t entirely well-known to general audiences, their work is strong enough to immediately capture our attention. There’s value in going for actors who are slightly less experienced but still possess the skill and raw human authenticity required for these roles – and in the case of this film, we have dual leads in the form of Andrea Bræin Hovig and Tayo Cittadella Jacobsen, who play the two protagonists, one a woman trying to liberate herself from the shackles of her past, the other a man desperate to find meaning, even if it means putting an end to his freewheeling way of life. They’re both extraordinary, not despite the simplicity of their characters but as a result of it. It takes time to truly understand these characters and what they represent, and both actors bring them to life with such quiet, meaningful precision – there is not a single misplaced emotion to be found anywhere, and there’s a sense of genuine sincerity that drives every moment they are on screen. They also handle the extensive dialogue exceptionally well, infusing each line with such earnest, deep humanity that we truly believe that these are complex, layered individuals with rich, full lives. The rest of the cast, particularly Thomas Gullestad and Lars Jacob Holm, are equally as strong, even if we don’t get to see as much of the world from their perspective. We may only be present in the lives of these characters for a short while, but the fact that they all feel so fully-realised and complex is a sign of the incredible collaboration between Haugerud and his cast, all of whom are exceptional, bringing these simple but evocative characters to life with incredible consistency and an abundance of unique charm.

There is an argument to be made that someone truly needs to have known what it feels like to be in love to understand this film. However, the writing of this film is strong enough that even those who may not have experienced this kind of uncertainty and existential despair will find something truly valuable with this film, which proves to be a far more complex, engaging affair than we would expect based on a cursory glance. Haugerud is an absolutely superb writer, someone whose experience in the world of literary arts (in his capacity of primarily being a librarian – this has allowed him to not only develop a knack for storytelling, but also the act of simply observing the lives of ordinary people), and this quiet sensibility is present in absolutely every frame of this film. It is designed to be essentially a few long, extensive conversations between characters as they move between different days (the entire film is spread over roughly a month), each one bringing them new revelations and insights that challenge and provoke them, and open their eyes to the realities of the world that surrounds them. Much of the film is executed through very subtle, nuanced approaches to the emotions – Haugerud is not someone who sees much value in hysterics, since it is evident that he understands the same concepts can be communicated in a whisper than it can in a shout, which is why his films are so subtle and quiet, carrying the weight of enormously difficult subjects in beautifully simple depictions of everyday life. He certainly sets out to find the poetry in banality, which is not an easy combination, especially with a film that attempts to interrogate something as enormously intimidating as the nature of love. It’s an achievement in both structure and style, with the unfurnished aesthetic (much of which is drawn from the kind of minimalistic sensibility that occupies a lot of contemporary Scandinavian culture) makes Love a very subtle film that captures the nature of reality in deeply moving ways without needing to spend too much time establishing its vision, choosing instead to focus on the story and everything that it represents.

As was the case for both previous entries into this trilogy, the gall that it took to bestow the title Love on this film is not to be overlooked – in the hands of any other filmmaker, it would seem hopelessly pretentious, an attempt to condense the entirety of love into a single two-hour narrative, which is dramatically and logistically impossible. Yet, Haugerud is someone who possesses the right blend of ambition and existential curiosity to actually effectively capture the spirit of the material without it becoming overwrought, which is precisely why we can appreciate this film as more than just a run-of-the-mill romantic drama, and instead embrace it as something original, complex and effortlessly engaging. Anchored by a terrific ensemble, all of whom are committed to taking these characters, representing various generations of ordinary people, and telling their story, which in turn reflects themes much more profound than many other explorations of the same core themes. As we find throughout this film, ambitious concepts don’t always beget overly dramatic, daring works – sometimes, the most effective way to communicate enormous messages is through simple, evocative stories of human interaction, where dialogue carries the most weight, and where these discussions are capable of revealing the complexities of the human condition without needing to do anything more than what was required. Haugerud may not seem to be the most audacious of filmmakers, but the layers of complexities present in his work underline his extraordinary skill – the writing is sharp, oscillating between bitingly funny and deeply melancholic, being as frantically offbeat as it is quietly pensive in some moments, the balance between the two being absolutely vital to the success of this film. Beautifully poetic but steadfast in its desire to be a clear and honest reflection of the central subject, Love is both a tremendous film on its own, and an astonishing conclusion to a trilogy of films that will undoubtedly be considered one of the most original, daring and provocative of the current decade.