John Lithgow in Love Is Strange (Jeong Park/Sony Pictures Classics)

In last year’s Oscar-winning Her, Spike Jonze offered the idea that falling in love is a form of “socially accepted insanity.” What might be even crazier is that, once the dust settles and life returns to a level of adjusted normalcy, we can, and often do, choose to sustain such a love, even if it no longer comes so freely and easily. With his laudable, subdued story of enduring passion in the face of quotidian adversity, director Ira Sachs (Married Life) eloquently proposes that, if nothing else, love is strange.

John Lithgow and Alfred Molina deliver quietly strong performances as Ben and George, respectively, two men who have shared nearly four decades of their lives together. The film opens with shots of cuddled bodies and crumpled blankets before the two prepare to legally and publicly bind themselves in matrimony. Rather than dwell on an anxiety-riddled build-up to a monumental ceremony, Sachs depicts Ben and George as simply meandering through their blissful, comfortable constancy. They have nothing to prove—their friends, families, and New York community offer tenderness and support for the abiding couple—and for them, a marriage certificate is nothing more than an afterthought, a glorified wall adornment.

Of course, after the rings have been swapped and the “I dos” declared, the reality of their circumstances rears its vengeful head into the couple’s short-lived post-marital merriment. George, a music teacher who has worked for more than a decade at a Roman Catholic school, is fired after word of his same-sex marriage reaches the archdiocese. Sachs does not resort to inserting Bible-spewing antagonists to break the reactionary news. Instead, the director acknowledges that sometimes cruel truths are simply out of our hands and we must make the most of the aftermath.

An immediate result of George’s dismissal and lack of salary is the sudden dearth of the couple’s finances. No longer can they afford their cozy Manhattan co-op apartment, and, in a city where shaken faith applies more commonly toward a real estate agent than to a higher power, the aging husbands must sell their lodgings and move in with family and friends. The only problem is, in order to be adequately accommodated, Ben and George must separate, likely for the first time in almost 40 years.

Ben moves in with his adoring filmmaker nephew, Elliot (Darren Burrows), Elliot’s novelist wife Kate (a reliably magnetic Marisa Tomei), and their teenage son, Joey (Charlie Tahan). Their two-bedroom Brooklyn abode also serves as a working space for Kate, and in no time Ben’s presence becomes a stifling impingement on the ruffled family. George moves in with the couple’s former neighbors, a pair of hard-partying gay cops, played by Cheyenne Jackson and Manny Perez. Instead of overbearing, George’s presence is regularly overlooked, and the couch that serves as his temporary bed is often occupied by late-night, liberally imbibing guests.

No one is comfortable with these modified living arrangements, and yet everyone seeks to make the best of the trying circumstances. Ben, oblivious to his own nettlesome presence at his nephew’s home, divulges to George that “Sometimes, when you live with people, you know them better than you care to.” And thus, Sachs offers us a morsel of how all love, be it romantic, familial, or incidental, is quite strange, indeed.

It’s the gentler moments that really demonstrate how love affects our decisions, actions, and conceptions of our self-worth. One of the most aching scenes takes place in the living room of Kate and Elliot’s apartment. George, fed up with the late-night shenanigans of his hosts, travels through a rainstorm to see his husband. Upon entering the apartment, George finds instant relief in Ben’s secure embrace and unselfconsciously sobs into his arms. It’s a solemn moment. We are sad for their distance, but uplifted by the fact that, even without a physical shelter of their own, they only require each other’s caress to feel at home.

Love Is Strange tactfully incorporates many such moments of tender familiarity, reminding us of why we do what we do for the sake of love. The film never exploits its same-sex relationship as a crutch for conflict, nor does it stage its romance as a cause célèbre or a call for advocacy. We are simply treated to a story of multifaceted, interconnected love, without embellishments. Sachs understands that, though we may want to believe that we can choose whether or not to shape our lives around someone, fundamentally we are at the behest of the heart. Love is certainly inexplicable, but it also fortifies.