Dear Brightest Day:
From the beginning, this was a marriage of convenience. You were the next big thing in event comics; I wanted to remain in the DC loop. I’d already dropped some middling books from my pull list (See ya, Green Lantern!), so I figured there was room for you in my life. Surely, we could work through my event fatigue issues together — especially with Peter Tomasi and Ivan Reis in the mix.
Just make out already.
Unfortunately, there was trouble early on, starting with that frickin’ white lantern in issue #0. I knew you came with some Blackest Night baggage, but I underestimated just how damned sick I was of that whole white light business and the various candy-colored corps. “Hal Jordan again?!” I fumed, prompting my oldest kid to ask what my problem was. And why I was talking to myself.
But then, you quickly appealed to my weakness for doomed lovers Hawkman and Hawkgirl, and Martian Manhunter. You also had that muscular, swaggering art from Reis, who draws a bicep like no one’s business. For a brief, shining moment, I truly believed we were gonna go the distance. I told V. that you were making an effort, but like someone who has heard one too many excuses for a friend’s sketchy lover, she was dubious: “If you say so, girl. I’m dropping it.”
By issue #4, I began to suspect that we just weren’t that into one another. For one thing, Firestorm made himself (themselves?) a little too comfortable, and I couldn’t hear the rest of the book over the sound of Jason and Ronnie’s incessant, tedious bickering. (For the record, Jason’s kind of a dick. I know Ronnie is inadvertently responsible for his girlfriend’s death, but still.) Mera and Aquaman’s issues, which seemed rich with promise, took a turn for the boring. Don’t even get me started on Deadman.
I’m not opposed to a little well-placed gore — I love Secret Six, after all. But when you gleefully began ripping off innocent bystanders’ heads (and limbs), it came across as desperate, and a little cheap. There was just too much going on, and it felt like a pileup of empty sturm and drang that was headed nowhere fast. It’s never a good sign on Wednesday nights when you hear yourself muttering, “I don’t have time for this.”
BD, I’m under no illusion that you need me. Heck, you can have almost any DC reader you want, you handsome, shallow devil. I just think it would be best for me to move on — y’know, see what else is out there before I start to resent the fact that you’re costing me $2.99 every other week. That’s a lot of tall Starbucks café Americanos. I’m sure you understand.
Best regards,
E. Peterman
