It's bad form — a sign of a writer's reluctance to tolerate disagreement — to cast aspirations on readers when critiquing. Instead of simply singing the praises of Summer Blonde, critic Andrew Arnold begins by declaring that those who don't like it, don't get it. Apparently, this collection of short stories is so brilliant, that to disagree is a flaw on the dissenter's part. That must mean I'm completely lost, because I found this comic dreary and unengaging.

Summer Blonde presents four small, personal, slice-of-life stories, containing nothing too melodramatic (some of the tales don't even have clear resolutions, just non-endings). It's all about the characters, about observing the feelings and minor details of everyday life. All four stories are also about embarrassment and pettiness.

Some works leave the impression that they're self-satisfied showing the negative minutiae of real life, that somehow it's more realistic than being sentimental and earnest. Certainly, pain — the lesser, private pains people experience (or endure) — is an important, even essential, part of art. But by putting these four stories together, it becomes the only goal of this collection, to show how people humiliate themselves and others. Some artists who push for these oh-so-hip revelations sound just as forced and insincere as those who try too hard to be reassuring.

The art certainly doesn't help. Although Tomine sometimes allows just the graphics to tell the story, the images are generally unimaginative and the layouts are dull. The characters are overly stiff, like Dan Clowes's work, but without Clowes's eccentricity and distinctiveness. Here, it's just awkward.

Cringe-inducing moments — Rupert Pupkin's visit to Jerry Langford's cottage in The King of Comedy, for example — are always welcome. They're honest reminders of what it means to be flawed humans. But Summer Blonde is too much like Leaving Las Vegas, which gave me no reason to give a damn about the characters or their problems.