Lars Lindstrom (Ryan Gosling) is a shy but amiable man yearning for love in a world he has trouble confronting. When he finds the woman of his dreams on the Internet, Lars emerges from his funk and proceeds to introduce his new girlfriend to friends and family. There’s only one problem: His new sweetheart is a life-size, anatomically accurate sex doll, and Lars has convinced himself she’s real. With love and concern, family, friends and other locals resolve to play along while Lars undergoes surreptitious mental evaluations.

In August, I made a prediction about an upcoming film called Lars and the Real Girl. The educated guess was part of a sporadically written column I write called The Preview Review, where I watch new trailers, look at who’s involved and try to speculate as to the film’s commercial and critical success.  Here’s what I had to say about Lars:

Prediction: Lars and the Real Girl will be a simple story with deep, complex characters, awkward comedy, and unconditional familial support.  It will be on par with the fantastic Little Miss Sunshine, but with one great bonus—Ryan Gosling.

No one could argue that Nancy Oliver—long-time Six Feet Under scribe and writer of Lars—didn’t have something special in her unique story about a socially awkward introvert looking for love. In fact, Lars probably could have walked into an episode of the late HBO drama—where irrational people often reflect upon things they can’t let go of—and looked ironically like the normal one. And the film also carries a similar theme: that sometimes acting irrational and delusional is a way one is forced to deal with struggle and loss—some snuggle up to a teddy bear, others find comfort in an old blanket. I’ll concede that the film is a more dramatized inflation of an improbable scenario, but Oliver handily bestrides the line between fictional appeal and human empathy.

Director Craig Gillespie, however, has more to contend with. With 16 years of experience in directing commercials, his two full-length features—he also directed the critically skewered Mr. Woodcock—could easily be an attempt at something new that doesn’t pan out.  But Gillespie stays remarkably reserved in his approach and lets the surreal nature of the story lead the way, something that a man used to filling 30 seconds of airtime could easily embellish (see P.T. Anderson’s Punch Drunk Love).

My prediction that Ryan Gosling (dubbed my “man crush” by FilmCrunch co-host Veronica Santiago) would be an invaluable addition to the film was only partially correct. Indeed, his tic-laden performance was heart-warming and genuine, which is all one would expect from the Oscar-nominated Mouseketeer.  But his supporting cast are all but phenomenal in their respective roles, carefully vacillating between compassion and confusion as the expressionless silicon beauty continues to upset their lives. The grossly under-appreciated Paul Schneider, playing Lars’s aghast older brother, somehow finds the perfect way to say every line, display every emotion and just look completely natural. To get a better look at what I mean, watch a lovesick Schneider in the similarly named All the Real Girls. The classically beautiful Emily Mortimer also finds her niche here, first playing a concerned sister-in-law then an emboldened enabler of Lars’s delusion. Kelli Garner plays a naíve girl competing for Lars’s affections and, despite her character’s homely disposition, proves herself an ethereal beauty and talented actor. Even the doll herself somehow emotes, changing hairstyles, makeup and clothing with a vitality far removed from your average Barbie doll.

However, despite the heaping praise, one thing really tends to hinder this film: Bad comedic timing. At first, the thought of a pleasure toy—built to scale with authentic-looking hair, eyes and breasts—entering one’s home as a guest is packed with humor. It’s still funny when you watch an entire town acclimate to the idea and prove to Lars by any means necessary that they consider her a human. Sadly, it’s even funny when the main character is becoming emotionally attached to his doll or outwardly struggling with his own delusion. The theater I attended was in stitches throughout the film, but I don’t think that was the point. Or if it was, I grossly misjudged the intention. Whether the incongruous guffaws were a product of a pensive screenwriter teamed with a reaction-hungry director or simply the difficulty of portraying a hilarious figure in any type of serious setting, I don’t know. But many of the moments where I should have been emotionally invested in on-screen pathos, I couldn’t help but laugh at the funny plastic lady and the unorthodox manner in which she was being treated. Humor was essential to the story, and I’m not denying it. But there was a proper time to turn that symbol from one of hilarity to something resembling a real human woman—a time when, in a sense, I should have fallen in love with her too. Simply put, that time passed too late in the film, and I felt I’d missed something.

Don’t mistake my rant for distaste; there is a lot to enjoy about this endearing gem. Lucky for us, a little misplaced humor can’t stifle the power of love—not even the silicon kind.