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LOS ANGELES — Amy Adams reached into her fanny pack and fished out a stick of sunscreen. “I’m such a mom-nerd,” she apologized, as if sensing the pretense of Hollywood Glamour melt with each dab to her flush, freckled cheeks. It was a late morning in June and the sun was high; there was nothing to apologize for. But she is congenitally polite and, as she stared up at the storied Art Deco observatory in Griffith Park here, on an 1,100-foot summit of Mount Hollywood, maybe a tiny bit self-conscious.
The hike had been her idea. A brisk climb punctuated by postcard views of Los Angeles landmarks: the Hollywood sign, the Santa Monica Mountains, the gauzy downtown skyline. Growing up in Colorado as one of seven children, hiking had been a family ritual — her parents’ way of getting her and her siblings to burn off energy without busting through the walls or the budget.
But because of an unlikely chain of recent events that, she explained, began with a run-in with her childhood ballet teacher and ended with an overeager return to the horizontal bar, she had suffered an “old lady injury.” Which meant that she hadn’t exercised in a while. Which meant that, even a few dozen yards into a hike with someone whom she just met, she’d already felt herself running short of breath.
The hike had been her idea. A brisk climb punctuated by postcard views of Los Angeles landmarks: the Hollywood sign, the Santa Monica Mountains, the gauzy downtown skyline. Growing up in Colorado as one of seven children, hiking had been a family ritual — her parents’ way of getting her and her siblings to burn off energy without busting through the walls or the budget.
But because of an unlikely chain of recent events that, she explained, began with a run-in with her childhood ballet teacher and ended with an overeager return to the horizontal bar, she had suffered an “old lady injury.” Which meant that she hadn’t exercised in a while. Which meant that, even a few dozen yards into a hike with someone whom she just met, she’d already felt herself running short of breath.
Between the panting and the fanny pack, Ms. Adams, already a five-time Oscar-nominated actress at 43, had begun to wonder what she must look like.
“I feel like I always … I don’t know if disappoint is the right word,” she said, zipping away the sunscreen. She was wearing dark, printed leggings, a black gift-shop ball cap with her signature strawberry tresses pulled through it and a black T-shirt that read, in big cutesy letters, “Better in real life.” “But whenever people meet me they’re always like ‘Really? That’swho you are?’”
She stopped for a moment, then deadpanned the answer that she always thinks but never says: “Yes. It is.”
She’ll star in July in the HBO mini-series “Sharp Objects,” her first television role since she began starring in features more than a decade ago. The eight-episode arc, based on the controlled burn of a novel by Gillian Flynn (“Gone Girl”), marks a departure of another sort, too — Ms. Adams’s performance, as a hard-drinking, self-cutting journalist who returns to her provincial hometown to cover a series of mysterious murders, is among the most desolate and disquieting of her career.
“It was a whole other level,” she said, comparing the part to other damaged characters she’s played in the past. But she had been attracted to the novel’s audacious reframing of the female detective archetype. “I like when you can take genre and turn it into its own thing,” she said. “That’s something I’m always interested in — trying to defy expectations.”
“I feel like I always … I don’t know if disappoint is the right word,” she said, zipping away the sunscreen. She was wearing dark, printed leggings, a black gift-shop ball cap with her signature strawberry tresses pulled through it and a black T-shirt that read, in big cutesy letters, “Better in real life.” “But whenever people meet me they’re always like ‘Really? That’swho you are?’”
She stopped for a moment, then deadpanned the answer that she always thinks but never says: “Yes. It is.”
She’ll star in July in the HBO mini-series “Sharp Objects,” her first television role since she began starring in features more than a decade ago. The eight-episode arc, based on the controlled burn of a novel by Gillian Flynn (“Gone Girl”), marks a departure of another sort, too — Ms. Adams’s performance, as a hard-drinking, self-cutting journalist who returns to her provincial hometown to cover a series of mysterious murders, is among the most desolate and disquieting of her career.
“It was a whole other level,” she said, comparing the part to other damaged characters she’s played in the past. But she had been attracted to the novel’s audacious reframing of the female detective archetype. “I like when you can take genre and turn it into its own thing,” she said. “That’s something I’m always interested in — trying to defy expectations.”
This summer, the family will temporarily relocate to Brooklyn, where Ms. Adams will shoot a film adaptation of another mystery novel, “The Woman in the Window.” When Aviana was born, Ms. Adams took on a slew of projects believing she needed to “hoard work” in order to be a good provider, a decision she came to regret. Now she filters jobs through school schedules and family vacations.
Like Camille, Ms. Adams’s character in “The Woman in the Window,” a Hitchcockian psychological thriller that debuted at No. 1 on the New York Times best-seller list this year, is another artifact of the “Moody and Introspective” era — she’ll play a mentally unstable and pathologically nosy recluse. “It must be my hormones,” she joked of the pattern, reverting to her baseline of reflexive self-effacement.
After surviving her “Innocents” phase — the earnestness, the piety, those doe eyes — is there a part of her that’s running in the opposite direction, searching down dark alleys to see what she might find?
She paused to think, toying compulsively with a beaded bracelet on her left wrist.
It’s not that she regrets any of her previous roles, but she is hungry for a different kind of challenge. “I don’t feel any sense of pride or accomplishment if I’m not being pushed, so I’m interested in anything that will push me,” she said.
“I may succeed, I may fail, but I’ll try anything.”
Like Camille, Ms. Adams’s character in “The Woman in the Window,” a Hitchcockian psychological thriller that debuted at No. 1 on the New York Times best-seller list this year, is another artifact of the “Moody and Introspective” era — she’ll play a mentally unstable and pathologically nosy recluse. “It must be my hormones,” she joked of the pattern, reverting to her baseline of reflexive self-effacement.
After surviving her “Innocents” phase — the earnestness, the piety, those doe eyes — is there a part of her that’s running in the opposite direction, searching down dark alleys to see what she might find?
She paused to think, toying compulsively with a beaded bracelet on her left wrist.
It’s not that she regrets any of her previous roles, but she is hungry for a different kind of challenge. “I don’t feel any sense of pride or accomplishment if I’m not being pushed, so I’m interested in anything that will push me,” she said.
“I may succeed, I may fail, but I’ll try anything.”
