Marcus Rosner is a Canadian actor celebrated for his work across television movies, romantic dramas, and hit series. Over the years, he’s earned a reputation for bringing charm and depth to memorable roles—particularly in Hallmark Channel productions and other standout TV projects. In our interview, Rosner turns the spotlight in a different direction, discussing his short film Emergency. As the film’s writer and director, he opens up about the deeply personal, autobiographical roots of the story, his creative process, and what it took to shape the characters from page to screen.
Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. You’ve worked as an actor, producer, writer, and director—when you look back, which role taught you the most about storytelling?
Writing, of course. It is the foundation that the rest of the jobs are built on, so you inherently must know the art of storytelling best. I would say it’s an area I’m still growing within and probably always will be. But that’s often what makes it the most fulfilling to get right when you are so lucky.
Early in your career, what did you get wrong about the industry—something you only learned by being in the trenches on set and in casting rooms?
Such a good question. I would say that I underestimated the need to network, unfortunately. When I started acting, I was such a purist and only wanted success based on my talent and talent alone, but what you learn the hard way is that this world is FILLED with talented people, and sometimes what truly differentiates who a producer/director wants to work with is who they know they will ENJOY working with.
You’re a producing partner at Northern Gateway Films and have produced twelve features in Alberta. What’s one production reality that you think more filmmakers should understand before they try to direct?
Just the realities of making your day and the cost of a production day-in day-out. I think when you truly understand how the machine is working, you can feel in control of guiding the creative and assigning what gets the most time and resources and what is less concerning.
As an actor on major shows like Arrow, Supernatural, and Sullivan’s Crossing, what have you learned about performance that directly influenced how you direct actors now—especially in emotionally delicate scenes?
Honestly, I think the biggest thing with performing the “big important emotional scenes” is trial and error. Don’t put pressure on yourself to nail it take one and don’t be afraid to try new ways into the scene by take five. Looser is better. It’ll help you connect to spontaneous and surprising emotion. Which is exactly what we’re trying to capture.
Emergency is intimate and quiet, but the stakes feel huge. What personal or autobiographical truth were you trying to protect in the writing—something you refused to sensationalize?
Yeah. I think that anyone who has witnessed domestic abuse knows that it’s not always a big dramatic singular, life-changing moment. I think if it was, it wouldn’t be as sustainable. It’s quiet. Even the physical abuse. It happens, it’s bad, and then apologies are made, and you carry on until next time. It just becomes such a normal part of household dynamics that you learn to live with it without ever fully grasping how much life it has suffocated until a breaking point comes. For me, I wanted the boy to be so familiar with it that he isn’t even upset. He just lives with it inside him.
The film hinges on what’s not said as much as what is. How did you approach writing subtext—did you map it intentionally, or did it emerge through rehearsal and performance?
Honestly, I wrote this script in about 20 minutes one night, and it hardly changed from that moment through to the final cut. People have repeatedly mentioned the subtext, but it is a little lost on me. I know it’s in there, and I can see it when I pay attention, but it was so unintentional I often don’t even realize it exists. And of course, this is simply the result of having more or less lived this experience and jotting down what I recall.
The emergency room setting can easily become chaotic, yet Emergency leans into stillness and tension. What was your visual and pacing philosophy for making silence feel active rather than slow?
Again, just something that comes from experience. Growing up in Northern Alberta and spending time in the emergency rooms there, it was always very quiet and very lonely. I don’t know, maybe it’s different in big cities, like in the movies and stuff, but where I grew up, the ER always felt like a sad, quiet place where you had to wait forever. That was the backdrop of this memory.
The story centres on two children forming an unexpected connection. How did you work with your young actors to build trust and authenticity—especially when the material touches on troubling, sensitive undercurrents?
I hired the best – Andrew Mcilroy. He was my original acting coach and longtime friend. He’s a legend in the Vancouver film scene. I always knew I wanted to team up and utilize his skills if I ever took this story to camera. Having him at my side was a real full-circle moment. He set up several Zoom sessions to rehearse with the kids in advance since we were all in different cities. Through that process, we were able to find exactly the level of understanding necessary to get the performances needed from the kids, and I honestly don’t think either of them ever really grappled with the emotional weight of this story because they simply didn’t have to.
There’s a “troubling secret” beneath the boy’s guarded silence. How did you decide how much to reveal, and what did you want the audience to wrestle with rather than be told outright?
I deliberately wanted to withhold the information, feeling his standoffish, quiet nature because, in a way, that is exactly how I felt growing up in these conditions – hard to understand. And I think this is very common with many kids all over the world struggling with a wide variety of problems at home. It affects them. You can see it, but you don’t know what it is, and they don’t know how to explain it, let alone understand it for themselves. It just sits in their nervous systems. So, I wanted the audience to wonder. Until it’s revealed.
If Emergency could start one uncomfortable but necessary conversation after the credits roll, what would you want that conversation to be—and what responsibility do you think filmmakers have when telling stories that echo real harm?
Hm. Maybe something along the lines of – childhood events have a profound impact. I know when I see kids going through difficult things now that it will live with them for the rest of their lives. The moments of our youth are exponentially amplified. They build who we become.
Where can our readers find out more about you?
As lame as it sounds, I think the best place to keep up to date with anything I’m doing is on Instagram at @marcus_rosner; it’s the one social media service that I regularly update and participate in.
Photo by Lane Dorsey
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