There's a lot to admire about this movie, but very little to enjoy. Crusty old Warren Oates really sinks his teeth into the role of a crusty old whaler, shipwrecked among the Eskimos. The native actors are brilliant. The authentic arctic scenery is beautiful, the native culture is intriguing, the ending is powerful and tragic.

The problem is that everything that happens is so damned predictable. The story is told in such a portentous, pretentious way, like the film makers think they're saying something incredibly profound about the failures of the white man's civilization. But there's nothing said here that wasn't said much better in books like TYPEE by Herman Melville, or even earlier movies like A MAN CALLED HORSE starring Richard Harris.

I mean, sure, the drunken whalers behave like pigs. And sure, you can see why the Eskimos reach their breaking point and start fighting back. But the dated Sixties bias of the film makers is so pitifully obvious. The preaching drags the drama down time and again. You really expect Oates' character to start shouting "Grease 'em all! Torch this place!" like he's Sergeant Barnes in Platoon. And you really expect the young, blonde sailor to start crooning "make love, not war," while he's balling the hot young Eskimo chick.

This isn't a movie about real Eskimos and real whalers -- it's a hippie film maker's fantasy about demonized whites and idealized natives.