Some movies are classics. Some are cult favorites. And then there are films like The Runestone, a 1991 adventure-horror fever dream that somehow decided Ragnarok should unfold in a Pennsylvania coal mine. It’s a movie that mixes ancient Norse mythology, New York City chaos, and Peter Riegert popping Pez like a diabetic on borrowed time. Against all odds, it works. Not in the sense that it’s good in a conventional way, but in the sense that you’ll be staring slack-jawed at your TV, wondering how this thing exists.
And the best part? It’s actually fun. Dumb, ridiculous, VHS-era fun. Like finding a cursed runestone in the back of your uncle’s garage, you know you shouldn’t touch it—but you just can’t resist.
The Plot: Loki Must Have Written This
The story begins in the depths of a Pennsylvania coal mine, where some poor schmucks dig up a runestone. Instead of finding coal, they’ve unearthed Fenrir, the apocalyptic wolf of Norse legend. Because nothing says “Nordic mythology” like a mine shaft outside Pittsburgh. The stone is transported to New York City (because of course it is), and that’s where the chaos begins.
One of the archaeologists becomes possessed and starts killing people, because apparently cursed rocks are the Nordic version of a flu virus. Meanwhile, Sam Stewart (Tim Ryan) and his wife Marla (Joan Severance) realize their friend Martin might be connected to this supernatural mess. A boy named Jacob has prophetic nightmares, which his uncle Lars (William Hickey, in peak cryptkeeper mode) explains through stories about Ragnarok.
Enter the Clockmaker, played by Alexander Godunov—yes, Karl from Die Hard—who turns out to be Týr, the Norse god destined to fight Fenrir. The climax is exactly what you think: god versus wolf, prophecy versus apocalypse, and enough overacting to keep a drama teacher drunk for a month.
Fenrir, Brought to You by Dollar-Store Practical Effects
Let’s talk about Fenrir, the wolf destined to eat the sun and bring about the end of the world. In The Runestone, he looks less like an ancient harbinger of doom and more like a rejected Halloween Horror Nights puppet. Dawan Scott does his best under the suit, but the monster is one part animatronic, one part guy-in-rubber, and one part unintentional comedy.
Does it look terrifying? No. Does it look like the kind of creature that could devour the cosmos? Also no. But does it look like something you’d happily watch tear through a VHS tape on a Saturday night with a bag of stale popcorn? Absolutely. Fenrir is camp at its finest—more Muppet than menace, but charmingly so.
The Clockmaker: Týr with a Bad Haircut
Alexander Godunov as the Clockmaker-slash-Týr is one of the film’s most inspired casting choices. A ballet dancer turned Hollywood villain, Godunov delivers his lines with the gravitas of a man who knows he’s fighting a foam-rubber wolf for rent money. Clad in long coats and blessed with the kind of hair you only see in shampoo commercials, he’s both absurd and mesmerizing.
When the Clockmaker finally reveals his divine identity, you half-expect the movie to stop so Godunov can do a pirouette. Instead, he throws down with Fenrir in a battle that’s equal parts clumsy and glorious. It’s like watching a Viking myth performed by a local community theater group—underfunded, overdramatic, and completely endearing.
The Supporting Cast: Chewing the Scenery Like it’s Buffet Night
The Runestone boasts a cast of familiar faces who all seem to know they’re in a glorified B-movie, and they lean into it.
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Peter Riegert plays Captain Gregory Fanducci, a Pez-popping, foul-mouthed cop who steals every scene he’s in. His character has no reason to exist other than to provide comic relief, and he delivers it in spades. Watching him swear at mythological chaos is like watching a Law & Order character stumble onto the set of The NeverEnding Story.
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Joan Severance as Marla Stewart does her best “concerned wife” impression, which mostly involves glaring at her husband and occasionally looking shocked.
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William Hickey as Lars Hagstrom is peak Hickey: raspy, bug-eyed, and delivering Norse mythology like it’s bedtime stories for the damned. He could read a menu and make it sound like the apocalypse.
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Lawrence Tierney shows up as a police chief, because every low-budget horror film from the 80s and 90s had to have Tierney somewhere, looking like he’d rather be punching someone.
It’s a cast of professionals trapped in a bonkers mythological horror, and the result is strangely delightful.
Tone: Adventure Horror by Way of Cable TV
The Runestone doesn’t know if it wants to be an action film, a horror film, or a mythological epic. So it just tries to be all three. The result is a tonal mess—but one that somehow works. The horror scenes are cheesy, the action scenes are clunky, and the mythological exposition is delivered like a drunk history lesson. And yet, it all comes together into something watchable, even charming.
It’s the kind of movie that’s perfect for VHS. You can imagine walking into a video store in 1991, seeing the cover art of a snarling wolf carved in stone, and thinking, “Hell yes.” Then you take it home, realize it’s nonsense, and love it anyway.
A Mythological Mess Worth Watching
What makes The Runestone special isn’t its quality—it’s its audacity. Here’s a film that says, “You know what America needs? Norse mythology in a Pennsylvania coal mine.” And then it delivers, with zero shame. It doesn’t matter that the budget couldn’t cover a convincing wolf puppet. It doesn’t matter that the script sounds like it was written during a Dungeons & Dragons campaign gone off the rails. It doesn’t even matter that the movie was released in Germany under the title Anthony III, for no discernible reason.
What matters is that it swings for the fences. And sometimes, missing the ball entirely is more entertaining than hitting it.
Legacy: A VHS Relic
Released by Live Home Video in 1991, The Runestone never had a proper theatrical run. Instead, it became the kind of tape you’d find in the horror section of your local rental shop, sandwiched between Ghoulies 3 and Basket Case 2. In Germany, it was marketed as part of a fake franchise. In the U.S., it vanished into obscurity, only to resurface decades later on DVD.
It never got the cult following it deserves, but maybe that’s part of its charm. The Runestone feels like a secret—something you stumble upon late at night, unsure if it’s real or just a fever dream.
Final Thoughts: A Howl of Delight
The Runestone is ridiculous. The monster looks cheap, the story is absurd, and the acting is often over the top. But it’s also entertaining, weirdly ambitious, and packed with enough charm to make it worth your time. If you’re the kind of person who appreciates practical effects, Norse mythology, and cops who pop Pez while yelling at gods, this movie is for you.
Is it good? Not in the traditional sense. But is it fun? Absolutely. The Runestone is proof that sometimes the best cinematic experiences aren’t the polished blockbusters—they’re the forgotten VHS tapes that shouldn’t exist but do.
