Starring in your own production:
- Nick Bohle
- Jan 22
- 5 min read
How I played Jack Dawson without losing the set
There’s a special kind of pressure that comes from starring in your own production.
When you’re “just acting,” your job is beautifully clear: show up prepared, stay present, and tell the truth on camera.
When you’re producing too, your brain is also tracking the weather, the schedule, the crew morale, the lunch order, the location access window, and whether the day will collapse if one small thing goes sideways.
On There Are No Squirrels in Lethbridge, I played Jack Dawson—our lead private detective—while also producing the project alongside my co-writer and producer Conner Christmas.
Here’s what I learned about wearing both hats without dropping the story.
Jack Dawson: the wound, the want, the contradiction
Jack’s core wound is simple and brutal:
He was framed for a crime he didn’t commit, sentenced to two years in prison, and lost everything that made him feel like himself—his teaching career and the love of his life, Christopher Merlin.
Now he’s back in a city he once loved, jaded and watchful, trying to solve the case of his own tainted heart.
He still doesn’t know who framed him. And he carries that unanswered question like a stone in his pocket.
Jack is also a frustrated bisexual P.I. in a conservative town, desperate for a fresh start, yet unable to outrun the past and the smother of traditional values.
That contradiction is the character: he wants peace, but he can’t stop picking at the scab.
The hardest part of starring in your own production: time, attention, and the micro-budget squeeze
The simplest truth is this:
the time commitment of producing and starring is substantial.
On a micro-budget, you don’t get the luxury of long private rehearsal periods, slow mornings, or spacious emotional warmups. When you’re producing, you often arrive “in motion,” solving problems.
And because the budget is tight, the role demands are heavier:
fewer people to delegate to
fewer buffers in the schedule
fewer chances to “find it” on take six
I’ll say it plainly: I didn’t get to commit to the role as deeply as I normally would when I’m only acting.
The saving grace? I co-wrote it. The story emerged from my bones and my own experiences.
Conner and I crafted Jack’s backstory from the ground up, which meant the character already lived inside me. That doesn’t replace rehearsal—but it does give you a map.
Looking back on it, hindsight is 20-20 so there's some things I would have liked to explore further but we've made something really gripping.
If you know me, you know I’m my own worst critic, so I’ll always be observing my work through a constructive lens, but I know art is subjective and at the end of the day, this story is for you, the audience, and you’ll take in what resonates. I’m always working to do better but I’m proud of what work we all delivered, considering the available resources and project workload.
My switch technique: costume, props, and voice
When you’re living in two identities—Nick the producer and Jack the detective—you need a ritual that pulls you over the threshold.
For me, costume and character props were my way in.
Once I was dressed as Jack, I’d start moving like him. I’d walk the set in character, not to “perform,” but to let the physicality settle into my bones.
The props helped too:
lighter
notepad
smokes
cigarette case
And finally: The voice.
Jack has a particular voice—subtle, grizzled, too much smoking and whisky for too many years, but distinct enough that when I dropped into it, I could leave “producer Nick” behind for a moment.
Another one was good old vocal warmup and articulation exercises. "Red Leather...," "To sit in solemn silence," etc. These exercises have stayed with me ever since learning them in drama class and acting throughout my B.F.A in performing arts at the U of L. They are akin to warmups in sports. You get a chance to get your head in the game - so to speak. The liminal space created by habitual exercises like this gives your brain a chance to shift gears.
Those transitions were everything.
Because on a micro-budget set, you don’t get a full hour to become the character.
Sometimes you get five minutes.
Sometimes you get one.
The scene that proved the edit is its own form of magic
There’s a sequence that really taught me something about acting, producing, and perspective: the interior farmhouse scenes (20–22) near the end.
On the day, it was late and long and chaotic. There were so many moving parts that the cohesion of the work was lost to me in real time. I couldn’t tell if we were landing it.
Then in post—once the music finally landed—everything clicked. The intensity landed. The drama unfolded. The performances revealed themselves in a new light.
It reminded me that set perception is not always telling of the final result.
Sometimes you can’t feel the true shape of the moment until it has a frame, a rhythm, and a score.
The acting lesson I keep relearning: less is more
I learn this on every production, over and over:
Less is more.
Do the work. Know the backstory. Know your lines. Build a three-dimensional character. Make it physical. Make it lived-in.
Then bottle it.
Bring it all inside your soul to set and keep it contained until the camera is on you—then release it.
Because you might get:
one take
maybe three
rarely many more
Make the first one count.
And for naturalism: create more movement in your thoughts than on your face. Be present with your scene partner(s).
The camera reads everything. Your inner monologue included.
Want help elevating performances on camera (without losing the production)?
If you’re a filmmaker or business owner who wants cinematic storytelling and real performance on camera—whether that’s narrative, documentary, or brand storytelling—book a session with me.
Help us bring Jack Dawson’s story further
Festival submissions, touring, and distribution take fuel. If you want to help There Are No Squirrels in Lethbridge reach more screens, your support genuinely matters.
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