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The Osmonds – Movie Man

Jay Osmond's Musical, The Osmonds - A New Musical, Continues to Receive Rave Reviews - Latter-day Saint Musicians

About the Song

Alright, let’s delve into the world of The Osmonds and their captivating track, “Movie Man.” This isn’t just another pop song; it’s a nostalgic trip back to a time when harmonies were rich, melodies were infectious, and family bands reigned supreme. For those of us who remember the vibrant music scene of the late 60s and early 70s, The Osmonds were more than just teen idols; they were a phenomenon.

“Movie Man” perfectly encapsulates this era. Released in 1971, it showcases the group’s signature blend of bubblegum pop with a touch of rock and roll energy. While often categorized alongside other family acts like The Jackson 5, The Osmonds carved their own distinct niche. Their musical prowess, honed from years of performing together since childhood, is evident in the intricate vocal arrangements and tight instrumentation of “Movie Man.”

The song itself tells a story, painting a vivid picture of a charismatic, larger-than-life figure – the “Movie Man.” It’s not simply about a man who works in the film industry; he represents an idealized figure, perhaps a director or a star, who holds the power to create magic and transport audiences to another world. The lyrics evoke a sense of wonder and admiration, capturing the allure of Hollywood and the escapism that cinema provides. This theme resonated deeply with audiences at the time, offering a brief respite from the complexities of the era.

Musically, “Movie Man” is a masterclass in pop craftsmanship. The upbeat tempo and catchy chorus are instantly memorable, while the verses build anticipation with clever chord progressions and dynamic shifts. The Osmonds’ vocal harmonies, a hallmark of their sound, are particularly impressive in this track. Each member’s voice blends seamlessly with the others, creating a rich tapestry of sound that is both powerful and emotive. You can hear the influence of earlier vocal groups, but The Osmonds brought a youthful energy and a polished production that set them apart.

Beyond the catchy melody and impressive vocals, “Movie Man” also offers a glimpse into the changing landscape of popular music. While still rooted in the pop sensibilities of the late 60s, the song hints at the harder rock influences that would become more prominent in the early 70s. This transition is evident in the slightly grittier guitar riffs and the more driving rhythm section. It’s a subtle shift, but it demonstrates The Osmonds’ ability to adapt and evolve with the times.

In conclusion, “Movie Man” is more than just a catchy tune; it’s a snapshot of a specific moment in music history. It showcases The Osmonds’ undeniable talent, their ability to craft infectious pop songs with substance, and their enduring appeal to audiences of all ages. For those who remember the song from its original release, it’s a nostalgic reminder of simpler times. And for those discovering it for the first time, it’s a testament to the timeless power of well-crafted pop music. It is a true testament to the musical talent of The Osmonds.Pin page

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Lyrics: Movie Man

Why did you do it, you should not make your mother cry
I’d say you blew it, yes it gave you one more try
Yet you laugh and you smile try to run away
Don’t you know what you do you might regret someday
Cause there’s one who has eyes on your evil waysThe movie man
Why do you do it, you’re in for a big surprise
Oh, I never knew it, but honey there’s no telling lies
You’re in living color, it’s your picture show
Even what you’re thinking everyone will know
That someday you’ll have to take a standThe movie man
You’re in living color, it’s your picture show
Even what you’re thinking everyone will know
That’s the day you’ll have to take a stand

The movie man
Why did you do it, you should not make your mother cry

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

SHE WAS A BRIDE AT FIFTEEN, A MOTHER AT SIXTEEN, AND THE FIRST WOMAN NASHVILLE EVER HAD TO CALL “ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR” — THEN SHE NAMED HER BABY AFTER THE BEST FRIEND SHE’D JUST BURIED, AND THAT BABY SPENT A LIFETIME MAKING SURE NEITHER VOICE WAS FORGOTTEN. Loretta Lynn came out of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, with nothing but a coal miner’s last name and a voice that could pin a grown man to his chair. Married before she could drive. Four children by twenty-two. Then she wrote songs that scared Nashville half to death — about cheating husbands, birth control pills, and women who’d had enough. Sixteen number-ones. Presidential Medal of Freedom. The whole world calling her the Coal Miner’s Daughter. In 1963, her best friend Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. The next year, Loretta gave birth to twins. She named one of them Patsy. That little girl grew up backstage, between tour buses and honky-tonks. She formed The Lynns with her twin sister Peggy. Earned CMA nominations. Then she did something quieter and heavier — she stepped behind the glass and co-produced her mother’s final albums alongside Johnny Cash’s son. Loretta died October 4, 2022. That first birthday without her, Patsy woke up reaching for a phone call that wasn’t coming — her mama singing “Happy Birthday,” the way she always had. Does knowing Loretta named her daughter after a ghost she never stopped grieving make “I Fall to Pieces” feel like it belongs to both of them now?

“YOU MAKE THE COFFEE, I’LL MAKE THE BED.” — GLEN CAMPBELL DIDN’T NEED A LOVE POEM. HE JUST NEEDED AN OKLAHOMA MORNING. In December 1971, Glen Campbell released “Oklahoma Sunday Morning.” It peaked at #15 on the country charts—not his biggest hit by a long shot. But something about this track stuck. It wasn’t about fame or tragedy; it was about coffee, making the bed, and packing a lunch. It was the kind of love that doesn’t make headlines. But the way Glen sang it, you realized he wasn’t just describing a routine. He was singing about the only place that truly felt like home. A kid from a sharecropper’s family of twelve in Delight, Arkansas—who went on to sell 45 million records—poured something deeply personal into this quiet track. Fifty years later, folks across Oklahoma still know every word. Some songs don’t need to reach #1. They just need to be true.

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SHE WAS A BRIDE AT FIFTEEN, A MOTHER AT SIXTEEN, AND THE FIRST WOMAN NASHVILLE EVER HAD TO CALL “ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR” — THEN SHE NAMED HER BABY AFTER THE BEST FRIEND SHE’D JUST BURIED, AND THAT BABY SPENT A LIFETIME MAKING SURE NEITHER VOICE WAS FORGOTTEN. Loretta Lynn came out of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, with nothing but a coal miner’s last name and a voice that could pin a grown man to his chair. Married before she could drive. Four children by twenty-two. Then she wrote songs that scared Nashville half to death — about cheating husbands, birth control pills, and women who’d had enough. Sixteen number-ones. Presidential Medal of Freedom. The whole world calling her the Coal Miner’s Daughter. In 1963, her best friend Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. The next year, Loretta gave birth to twins. She named one of them Patsy. That little girl grew up backstage, between tour buses and honky-tonks. She formed The Lynns with her twin sister Peggy. Earned CMA nominations. Then she did something quieter and heavier — she stepped behind the glass and co-produced her mother’s final albums alongside Johnny Cash’s son. Loretta died October 4, 2022. That first birthday without her, Patsy woke up reaching for a phone call that wasn’t coming — her mama singing “Happy Birthday,” the way she always had. Does knowing Loretta named her daughter after a ghost she never stopped grieving make “I Fall to Pieces” feel like it belongs to both of them now?

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“YOU MAKE THE COFFEE, I’LL MAKE THE BED.” — GLEN CAMPBELL DIDN’T NEED A LOVE POEM. HE JUST NEEDED AN OKLAHOMA MORNING. In December 1971, Glen Campbell released “Oklahoma Sunday Morning.” It peaked at #15 on the country charts—not his biggest hit by a long shot. But something about this track stuck. It wasn’t about fame or tragedy; it was about coffee, making the bed, and packing a lunch. It was the kind of love that doesn’t make headlines. But the way Glen sang it, you realized he wasn’t just describing a routine. He was singing about the only place that truly felt like home. A kid from a sharecropper’s family of twelve in Delight, Arkansas—who went on to sell 45 million records—poured something deeply personal into this quiet track. Fifty years later, folks across Oklahoma still know every word. Some songs don’t need to reach #1. They just need to be true.