says Icelandic actor Bjorn Björgensten, clothed from head to toe in chain mail, metal gloves and a long metal cape. He clutches an enormous prop styrofoam sword like it only weighs a few ounces. Most likely it does — so it's confusing that nobody's telling Bjorn to act like it's heavier. But since I'm the guest, I decide not to question his acting choices as Ringlord's hero, the brave Agrabon the Abrobonian.

Bjorn suddenly pauses. His eyes soften as he stares at Dark Lord Sorvon (his arch-enemy in the Ringlord series, played by Kevin Sorbo of Hercules fame). Is Bjorn perhaps contemplating his destiny as The King of The Middle Times? Or does he intend to confront the Dark Lord Sorvon about who his father is? Minutes pass as I wait in giddy anticipation. More minutes pass, my anticipation slowly draining away. Several more minutes come along, then also pass. Seven minutes in all trot by.

"I have forgotten my lines," admits Bjorn finally, hanging his head in shame.

"Which ones?" sighs Ringlord director Jack Peterman, leafing through a nearby script with mounting impatience. (For a film rumored to be over eight hours long, I notice that the script looks unbelievably slim, no more than twelve double-spaced pages. I am later told that Peterman prefers his scripts light on dialogue, as it "helps achieve a level of spontaneity" and "cuts down on the time our low-budget cast gets to say things.")

Bjorn hangs his head even lower.

"You forgot all your lines?" asks Peterman in disbelief, tossing the script over his shoulder and cradling his face in his hands.

I am currently on-set for principal photography in the third and final installment of the Ringlord franchise, Ringlord III: The King's Revenge. For the last forty minutes, director Jack Peterman has patiently coached his two actors through the final showdown scene between Agrabon and Sorvon. No matter what advice his co-star or Peterman gives him, however, Bjorn is unable to retain the memory of any line except "You there." With several pages of script to get through before the day is finished, Peterman is clearly stressed at the roadblock.

The rest of the cast and crew of Ringlord and I watch patiently for the next fifty minutes, while  Peterman walks Bjorn through the scene word by word to help him memorize his lines.

"I am thinking I have it now, yes," says Bjorn confidently, slapping Peterman playfully on the back. Crisis averted, it would seem.

A further twelve takes shoot by like lightning, each more awful than the last.

"This I cannot figure out," says Bjorn, frustrated. "All of my lines are right here in my head," he explains, tapping his enormous forehead. "I am remembering them always right until it is time to say them, and then all I can think of is fjords."

Peterman calmly suggests that Bjorn simply not think of fjords. His suggestion is met with the sort of look one might get telling someone to grab a kitten from the protesting hands of an orphan, then eat it like a submarine sandwich in front of the orphan. Apparently fjords are a touchy subject with Bjorn.

Eager to nail the scene before the day is out, Peterman tries out a new strategy. He grabs Bjorn by the ear, tugs his large Icelandic star into a dressing room and, as far as the cast and I can tell, beats him as savagely as it is possible to beat another human being.

"You! Stupid! Ox! You! Will! Read! These! Lines!" we hear, each word punctuated by the sound of a clipboard meeting a skull. "Do you want to go back to dog food commercials in Iceland? I'm paying you six dollars an hour here! A responsibility comes with that six dollars!" This is followed by an uninterrupted stream of the filthiest cursing I or anyone else has ever heard. Sailors would stare at their shoes.

"We're back!" says Peterman pleasantly, extending a wide grin as he exits the dressing room  seconds later. Bjorn staggers out soon after holding his swollen head (since Bjorn's head is always at least somewhat swollen, it is difficult to make out if there is any cause for alarm).

"Oh!" says Peterman, noticing me for the first time. "That's right, we've got a member of the press here today, don't we! Ah ha ha." He approaches me, beaming a large grin, and whispers If you print this I will  bury you into my ear. I will carve you like a Christmas turkey and laugh the whole time.

I understand, I tell him. He taps his nose and returns to the set.

Bjorn Björgensten is arguably the biggest star to emerge from the Ringlord series. One of the pre-eminent actors in his native Iceland, his twin gifts of looking handsome and acting shirtless have endowed the character of Agrabon with a soft-spoken hunkiness Ringlord fans have come to love. As well, Bjorn's acting style and complete unfamiliarity with the English language have led to the mangling of everything it is possible for a human being to mispronounce, which fans have come to expect. Probably more omnipresent than any of these, however, are Bjorn's patented nasally delivery and look of permanent confusion, which fans have come to patiently tolerate.

Whether or not his 'reading-menu-items-off-a-chalkboard' acting style is your cup of tea, you would find it hard to argue that Ringlord has made Bjorn a bonafide celebrity. "I love his eyes," gushes one teenage fan at the premiere of Ringlord II: The Big Deuce last December. "I love that he's shirtless in, like, every scene he's in," adds another, hugging a plush Agrabon doll. "I fully intend to finger myself," a third explains to me with grim-faced determination, before entering the theater and proceeding to do just that for the entirety of the film's six-hour running time.

Despite his legions of newfound fans, Bjorn insists he's still the same simple guy from Sauðárkrókur. "No, he hasn't changed at all," agrees child actor Alistair Crispin, who plays Haffit ring-holder Lordo Ringfellow in the films. "I mean, sure, he nails a lot of his Ringlord groupies. Some of them are even pretty young, too. Too young even, I'd think. But that's the thing: see, he was doing that sort of thing way before he was famous."

"All of this is true," laughs Bjorn with a laugh that fills the room, giving Crispin friendly slaps on the back until the tiny child actor collapses.

Back on the set, the cameras are rolling once again. Bjorn has sworn to remember his lines, and it looks like I'm about to see the actual heart-stopping conclusion of Ringlord III: The King's Revenge. Spoilers ahead, folks!

Bjorn, as Agrabon, walks onto the plywood set doubling as the highest peak of The Saddest Mountain of All. This, as fans of Jeff Tolhouse's books know, is where our hero finally casts Lordo Ringfellow into the heart of the volcano, forwever destroying The Only Ring To Rule All of Them. He points a finger at Sorbo as The Dark Lord Sorvon, who holds Lordo hostage at knifepoint.

"Prepare to be overthrown, Dark Lord Sorvon," he says menacingly. "For I am the Agrabon the Abrobonian, future king of The Middle Times."

"You are the one who should prepare to be overthrown, Agrabon," laughs Sorbo through a mouthful of plastic fangs, causing the plastic horns glued to the sides of his head to jiggle a bit. "For I will be the one overthrowing you." He laughs an enormous evil laugh until director Jack Peterman makes frantic gestures off-camera, at which point Sorbo tones down his evil laugh to a less preposterous level.

"This next part is so awesome," whispers Peterman— to, I should point out, nobody but himself. The fat little man is thoroughly insane, make no mistake about it. Plus I can't get over how fake all of it looks—the mountains, the fangs, the cardboard cut-outs meant to be actors.

"We'll see about that, Sorvon," Bjorn sneers, pulling his ace out of his sleeve: the Only Ring To Rule All of Them. The Dark Lord Sorvon gasps at the subterfuge, looking down in panic to his hostage Lordo, who pulls the contents of his neck-chain out of his shirt to reveal: a carrot.

"You had it all along?" shrieks Sorvon to Agrabon. "But why? Why go through all this trouble then?"

"No time for explanations now, scum!" Bjorn returns, loading the ring into the barrel of a snub-nosed .38 pistol. He does a quick duck and roll, then empties the gun into the Dark Lord's neck.

"Nooooooo," wails Sorvon, collapsing to the ground. Blood squibs go off a few seconds late and dribble down the front of his costume.

"Looks like you got ring around the collar," says Bjorn, standing up and dusting himself off. He continues to stand completely still, waiting for Peterman to yell cut. Peterman, though, is momentarily distracted by a magazine he's reading, and so Bjorn reluctantly continues the scene.

"Now you're… dead around the collar," he improvises. Someone jogs Peterman's elbow.

"Oh! Cut! Stop! That was good! Print it and cut!" says Peterman, leaping out of his director's chair with as much speed as his considerable girth will allow. "That was great! We'll recreate your performances later digitally, of course—but only to improve them," he assures. Bjorn's wide shoulders seem to sag slightly at the news.

Peterman dances around the set oblivious, setting up the next shot where Agrabon, just to be safe, throws Lordo Ringfellow into The Saddest Mountain of All. Suddenly his face becomes beet-red and he is forced to sit down.

"Another heart attack, sir?" asks Rod, Peterman's personal assistant and Head Heart Attack Grip on the set.

"No... maybe. I'm not sure," says Peterman. "Is it good or bad when your left arm goes numb and you can't feel your legs?"

"Um," panics Rod, as he checks his Heart Attack chart. "Bad I think."

"Damn. Then yes, I'm having another heart attack," says Peterman before passing out. With looks of intense concern on their faces, the actors all run over and huddle around a catering table, trying to work out who won the office pool.

"Three in one week! Greg wins the pot!" yells a stagehand. Greg is lifted up over everyone's shoulders, then carried around the set and over Peterman's prostrate twitching form several times.