In 2009, after Amy Adams had been discovered and rediscovered, after she had been nominated for two Academy Awards and starred in an international hit, a very important paper self-importantly judged her a “late bloomer.” “Cool,” Adams said recently. “At least I bloomed.” She laughed. How could she not? Being a movie star can be absurd. More than most roles, it can define a performer and brutally undermine her, affecting how she’s categorized, whether she’s forgiven or forgotten. If Adams has evaded the churn of celebrity culture, it’s partly because stardom came as it did. When “Enchanted” opened in 2007 she was 33, middle age in Hollywood years (especially for women). Wide-eyed and radiant, she looked like an ingénue, but in truth had been honing her craft and overcoming rejection for years. Stardom wasn’t a benediction, but something she had earned role by role.