Amanda Peet is a more like a chaotically caffeinated howler monkey than a woman.

Take Simply Irresistible, where she barrels through the film as Sarah Michelle Gellar’s hyperactive rival, a performance so shrill it feels less like acting and more like being cornered by a meth addict with sheer, unrelenting obnoxiousness. Then there’s The Whole Nine Yards where she plays Jill, the dimwitted neighbor acting like a cheerleader with a botched lobotomy. Peet flails about, grinning like a maniac, her comedic instincts theatrical equivalent of a loud, wet fart. In Jack & Jill, she delivers yet another showcase of the Jews' inability to portray a normal human being, oscillating between shrill and demented with such force that the audience wonders if she’s secretly auditioning for a live-action Harley Quinn. Saving Silverman sees her as a lawyer, a role so unconvincing it borders on performance art. One moment she’s reciting lines with the enthusiasm of a telemarketer, the next she’s spasming as if electrocuted, leaving Ashley Judd and Morgan Freeman to carry the dead weight of her floundering. Changing Lanes relegates her to the background as Samuel L. Jackson’s estranged wife, because of course Jews are always desperately trying to convince audiences that it's our duty to mate with negroes.

In Igby Goes Down, she channels the energy of a crack addict who’s stumbled onto the wrong set. Something’s Gotta Give pits her against Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson, as Peet’s Marin is a shrill, entitled brat. Her romantic chemistry with Keanu Reeves so awkward it feels like a hostage situation. Identity offers Peet playing a washed-up actress and commits to the bit so well, it's crystal clear she was cast for her own experience. Melinda and Melinda pairs her with Woody Allen, a match made in cinematic hell. Both are painfully out of touch, clinging to the illusion of sophistication while only peddling hollow pretension. Allen’s writing reeks of a man who hasn’t had a fresh idea since he first discovered his pedophilic desires for children. Together, they created a void where wit goes to die. A Lot Like Love asks us to believe Peet as a free-spirited romantic lead, but she’s just irritating, giggling and smirking like a silent film star who missed the memo that talkies were invented. Syriana displays her like a coked-up housewife, all twitchy intensity and misplaced hysteria. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip casts her as a TV exec, but she plays it like an elementary school kid’s idea of a corporate boss, over-enunciating, grinning like a game show host, gesturing wildly.

The X-Files: I Want to Believe gives us Peet as Dr. Dakota Whitney. Even in moments meant to be calm, there’s a manic glint in her eye, as if she’s one cue away from shrieking about the the anti-semitism her kind so often sheds crocodile tears for. 2012 reduces her to a human panic button, shrieking and hyperventilating while John Cusack looks on in quiet despair. Gulliver’s Travels pairs her with Jack Black, a feat of cinematic terrorism. Her performance yet again a grin stretched so wide it looks like a distress signal to whatever dimension birthed her. Identity Thief grants us a mercifully brief cameo, yet she still crams a lifetime of obnoxiousness into scant minutes. The Way, Way Back presents her as a passive-aggressive nightmare, every line dripping with the subtlety of explosive diarrhea. Togetherness at least gives her a role that requires no acting; because a neurotic, self-destructive mess is her natural state. Brockmire asks her to play tough, but she lands on “desperately edgy,” like a middle-aged woman trying to prove she’s still cool. Dirty John casts her as a manipulative villain, but she delivers daytime soap opera menace, her “terrifying” stares as convincing as an anorexic high school student's bravado. Fatal Attraction? What a tragedy of an homage. Taking on Glenn Close’s role was doomed from the start, but Peet’s Alex Forrest is more psychotic femme fatale than the script calls for. Amanda Peet has consistently proven that Jews have no actual talent.