I have this theory that on the set of 1991's Father of the Bride, Steve Martin and Diane Keaton turned to each other and said, "You know what? From here on out, let's just keep doing this. Let's just play cute, cuddly versions of our formerly edgy and interesting selves -- slightly goofy mothers and fathers, that kind of thing -- and watch the cash roll in!" Then they high-fived and fell into an awkward, melancholy silence.

Through one unchallenging project after another, Keaton has served up the same old eye rolls, squeals, and stutters until you can't really tell one role from another. And what's really frustrating about watching her squander her talents is that -- as with Martin -- no matter how embarrassing the performance, you can't help but love her anyway. She's at her most unhinged in Mad Money, and painful as it is to watch at times, she does -- just barely -- manage to keep the film afloat.