The exact breaking point may vary. Perhaps it’ll be the doctor’s dubious recommendation for the town to play along, the mall store hiring the titular Real Girl or the fact nobody even tries to stick their dick in the thing. Your reaction is inevitable — at some point you’ll yell at the screen, “It’s a fucking sex doll!” Despite strong performances from the cast and some amusing gags, Lars and the Real Girl fails to surmount its conceptual conceit. This isn’t the feel-good comedy whose tropes the film happens to wear, but instead, the twisted fantasy of a social shut-in.

At the centre of this fantasy, with a mustache stolen from a junior high locker room, is Ryan Gosling as Lars. Awkward and afraid of being touched, the supposedly very sweet Lars has an entire town vying to coax him out of his sweater-swathed shell. And so when Lars orders a Real Doll and treats it as if it were a person, his family and the town, as per the doctor’s recommendation, treats the doll likewise. Nobody’s really opposed to the idea for long — the few who voice their concern or disgust seem to think, “Well, he did almost win an Oscar.” No real obstacles or conflict, just a delusional fantasy burning out. Lars is beloved and the town embraces the Real Doll as a stalwart leader of the community.

And for that brief moment, the fantasy falters. Jealous of all the attention paid to his Real Doll, Lars chops firewood while confronted by his sister-in-law (Emily Mortimer). Throughout the film, Gosling plays Lars as a man who remained stuck in adolescence, in a body he hasn’t quite figured out how to work yet. Usually used for comedic affect, when Lars has that axe in his hand, you’re not quite sure what this man-child will do. And then, the rage and anger of the moment is ushered away with hugs and sight gags. After all, this is a fantasy, one trapped in the muffled colours and desolate snowy landscape of a small town.

Director Craig Gillespie seems lost within the juxtaposition, instead charging gung-ho into the comedy, logic be damned. His limited palette of broad gags and big emotions does little to quell the twisted fantasy residing at the heart of the film. Though miles ahead of his previous work, Mr. Woodcock, Lars and the Real Girl feels dishonest in its attempts to avoid conflict. Only when the film takes a break from its desperate attempts to win you over do the gentle humour and quirky characters endear. But then, the moment passes and you can’t help but realize it’s a fucking sex doll.