Adams, fair skinned, big eyed, with flaming red hair (dyed from her natural blonde), felt like she’d been dropped in from a more innocent time of triple-threat stars and musical-driven cinema. Remember, this was the era of Angelina, Jennifer and Julia; of Lara Croft and Rachel Green, where romantic comedies owned the box office. Chicago had won Best Picture, but the cachet of supermodel-ready stars didn’t have the character to carry the musical revival flag. Drew Barrymore, fresh from Charlie’s Angels, topped Forbes’s list of highest paid actresses, with $22 million.
In an age of statuesque action stars and football wives, Adams was Rita Hayworth’s playfulness and vigour mixed with Audrey Hepburn’s innocence and shyness – think The Nun’s Story, Roman Holiday or Sabrina. She was even thrown into a film that felt like it was ripped from cinema screens sixty years earlier – the musical dramedy Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, where she plays a scatterbrained American actress attempting to break into the business, as well as navigate relationships with three very different men. Vintage-inspired photoshoots ran amok, as they would for Jessica Chastain, another seemingly overnight-success redhead, half a decade later, hailed with affectations of being otherworldly and somehow more innocent as a result. It was a welcome throwback for the moviegoing public.