Paris is so naturally cinematic, and so mythically aligned with the idea of romance, that the city could generate hundreds, if not thousands, of episodes such as the ones that make up “Paris, Je T’aime.” And it has, almost from the beginning of film history. This compendium of glancing vignettes is only the latest variation on a theme, 18 postcards of l’amour fou and l’amour perdu dispatched from all but two of the 20 arrondissements loosely connected through geographical proximity and twinkling star power.

Where one story ends, another begins, with directors drawn from a who’s who of indie/Euro/arthouse faves: the Coen Brothers, Gus Van Sant, Alexander Payne, Alfonso Cuarón, Gérard Depardieu, Tom Tykwer, Christopher Doyle, and so on (Two intended segments were dropped due to continuity issues and are presumably destined for the DVD).

It’s rare that such enterprises are better than a hit-or-miss proposition. And often enough, “Paris” is a soufflé-light amusement that plays like a less sadistic version of Lars Von Trier and Jorgen Leth’s “The Five Obstructions,” in which the Danish iconoclast commanded his mentor to make five short films, each according to a seemingly ridiculous set of guidelines. Here, of course, each filmmaker is required to shoot against a specific backdrop (the throbbing red lights of Place Pigalle, for instance), typically using the talents of renowned American or European actors (Juliette Binoche or Elijah Wood), and keeping it to about six minutes. Some choose to fill their time with a single shot; others, such as Mr. Tykwer, opt to cram the frame with scores of scenes sped up like time-lapse photography and set to a techno beat. The cumulative effect suggests a city teeming with simultaneous love adventures, each an instant of magic or bedevilment, cruel fate, or pixilated whimsy.

The Americans have the surest hand for comedy. The Coens can’t pass up another chance to box poor Steve Buscemi about the ears as a justifiably paranoid tourist who runs afoul of two impetuous lovers in the Tuileries Metro. While the scene is pure slapstick, it resonates with anyone who has ever wandered through the museum district eyeballing more than Delacroix. Even more effective is Mr. Payne’s tour of the 14th arrondissement, in which Margo Martindale plays a lonely Midwestern postal employee on her first visit abroad, narrating her strolls in clumsy French while she yearns for a connection. The satirical elements only make her isolation more sympathetic.

Mr. Payne also has a cameo as Oscar Wilde, who rises from his grave at Père-Lachaise to rescue Emily Mortimer’s rocky courtship with the humor-challenged Rufus Sewell by dispensing a few classic witticisms. Gravestones or not, that segment is Wes Craven at his fluffiest, and points toward the inevitable, if clever, triviality of the film’s concept. There’s a tendency toward YouTube-ish novelty that sometimes feels like a really smart Pepsi commercial. The brevity of each segment compels some directors to go for the gimmick, the surprise twist, the winking aside.

Mr. Cuarón’s single tracking shot of Nick Nolte and Ludivine Sagnier walking down a street in Parc Monceau sets up a cuddly sucker punch regarding the nature of appearances. But splashy segments that dip into animation (Vincenzo Natali’s vampire-themed “Quartier de la Madeleine”) and the musical (Mr. Doyle’s “Porte de Choisy,” with a spry turn from Barbet Schroeder) are too superficial.

But the theme blooms with the ardor of a thrumming heart in episodes in which life has taken a detour and actors have quiet moments to engage with one another. Gena Rowlands and Ben Gazzara are crusty delights in Frédéric Auburtin’s “Quartier Latin.” She meets him in a café to discuss signing divorce papers. It should be a mere formality, since they have long been separated and he’s ready to marry a much younger woman. But their intimate rapport loosens lips, and Ms. Rowlands (who penned the scenario) suddenly finds cause to give the old goat some trouble. It’s a beautifully nuanced bit of actorly indulgence. Bob Hoskins and Fanny Ardant, as a different pair of seasoned lovers, are nearly that good in Richard La-Gravenese’s “Pigalle,” staging a rendezvous in the Parisian tenderloin to recoup their groove.

For a film that devotes so much time to the mouth-watering documentation of spacious apartment interiors and to showing Paris in its kindest light, it’s worth noting that the most singularly affecting segment is about a homeless person. Oliver Schmitz’s “Place des Fêtes” follows the plight of a West African immigrant (Seydou Boro) who sings a bittersweet melody and strums his acoustic guitar. He pines for his home, and for the affections of a lovely woman (Aïssa Maïga) he briefly met and has never seen again. Serendipity arrives in a sudden act of violence that undercuts the film’s dreaminess with a reminder of the city’s racist elements — perhaps more obvious in a neighborhood that is populated with Africans attempting to resettle in the local community. Ms. Maïga arrives as an angel of mercy, and even though this love is unrequited, it is the most tender of all. Bring a date, a hanky, and a baguette — you will need them all.