There's such a thing in this world as aging gracefully (see Brad Pitt), and then there's Keanu Reeves, which is another thing altogether. The average cinephile may not describe Reeves as a "thing," but take it from one who knows: At this point in time he may be the only one in his weight class who could get into the ring in full Thing glory to show the world what he's made of.
For those young whippersnappers who have trouble pronouncing his first name, much less recall a movie he's been in lately, Reeves is perfectly preserved icon from the 1980s. He got his first big "serious" role in a Gus Van Sant movie called "My Own Private Idaho," which caused legions of grown women (and men too, of course) to weep with gratitude at the emergence of a genuine beautiful-boy deity.
That he couldn't act was beside the point. Reeves just being there was more important. The years went on; actors of his generation changed or got old or disappeared from the veldt, but Reeves remained his same pretty, wooden self.