Good avenger, bad boyfriend?

Peter Parker: Good, butt-kicking defender of justice. But a bad boyfriend.

While the superheroes of olde seemed to enjoy leaping tall buildings, being beloved and looking hot in a skin-tight unitard, Spider-Man's alter-ego is a buff but unappealing mess of conflict, regret and self-inflicted emotional burden.

And who wants to date that?

I feel for his long-suffering sweetie, Mary "M.J." Jane.

M.J.: "Honey, I had the longest day at work! Let me tell you all about it."

Peter Parker: "You had a long day? I had to stop an insane industrialist from destroying the city and everyone I love, hide my secret identity from my best friend, who thinks I killed his father and wants me dead, and meet a newspaper deadline. I harbor such angst, such pain. A deep, angsty pain. (Pauses dramatically to stare into the horizon all serious-like). Leave me. I must go to a dark rooftop and brood about my joyless and exquisitely happy-free existence. And perhaps shed a silent tear.... Say, what's for dinner?"

Poor little M.J. She's been caught in the tractor beam of a new breed of summer movie hottie: the Broody Bruiser.

Spidey's not alone. There's Denzel Washington's boozy, Linda Ronstadt-listening former assassin in Man On Fire, Brad Pitt's stormy warrior dude in Troy, David Carradine's Zen sandwich-making master killer in Kill Bill Vol. 2, Hugh Jackman's moody monster hunter in Van Helsing and pretty much every character Tom Cruise has ever played.

They're all lethal weapons.

And they're all really bummed about it.

These guys are guided by two equally powerful forces: the need to kick butt, either for justice, vengeance or profit, and the need to reflect on it -- a lot. What gives? I mean, you want to give some consideration to their violent lot in life, but do they have to be so all-consumingly down about it?

Pimping ain't easy, the wise Big Daddy Kane once said, and neither is world-saving/assassinating. Wasn't that in the job description? Suck it up, junior.

Beneath the chiselly chests and sexy smiles, these guys are basically angsty rock stars with guns. And let's ask ourselves: Would you want Morrissey to have a gun?

With these guys, it's either "My eternal torment" or "My inability to not shoot people" or "My vigilante killing spree." Blah, blah, blah.

Ladies, you know what it's never about? You.

At the end, you're just something else to save (or in Kill Bill's case, not save) or another symbol of the life they could have if they weren't so all-importantly burdened and whatnot.

And as cute as Denzel or, say, Thomas Jane's haunted vigilante in The Punisher is, when are they gonna find time in their busy killing/moping schedule to take you out to dinner or something? I understand professional obligations, but can't it be about me just an eeensy bit?

There's only room for one self-obsessed person in a relationship, and I'm already occupying that deck chair.

I'm not saying sensitive guys are bad -- Mark Ruffalo's sweetly confused photographer in 13 Going On 30, the sort of chap who feels things deeply, was simply yummy. And there's alternately something magnetic about the combination of potential danger and devastating dimples that makes your James Bond/Indiana Jones types seem like tuxedoed or fedora-clad catnip.

But when infused into the same guy, the cry/kill reflexes make for one scary boyfriend. Bond and Indy had regrets, but at the end of the day, they scheduled their moping for their off hours, because if there are two things that don't mix, it's weeping and firepower.

Take Bill in Kill Bill, for instance. And take his pistol and his samurai sword while you're at it. This guy, who's gotten rich as a sort of assassin manager, is so sensitive and torn up about his girlfriend (Uma Thurman) leaving him to marry someone else that instead of writing a drippy poem about her, or perhaps drowning in a sea of Jack Daniels, he just has to execute her entire wedding party, leaving her alive but in a coma, with a bullet in her head and her presumed-dead baby taken from her.

And then there's Troy boy Achilles (Pitt), who, according to the movie, was indeed an ancient rock star -- all the girlies wanna love him, and all the boys wanna either be him or kill him. He's like Grecian Steven Seagal -- hard to kill, save for a wee patch of skin below his ankle.

But you think Achilles is happy? Noooo. He sulks around, butt naked, sullen and bitter that while the Spartans want him to fight, do they really understand him? Do they honestly appreciate the sacrifices he makes for them? Why don't they love him?

Even though he knows it's prophesied that it's gonna kill him, Achilles signs up for the Trojan War, because he likes being adored and famous, and probably because he needs something really good to whine about.

And don't get me started on Van Helsing (Jackman), who skulks around Europe on a holy quest to rid the world of evil creatures, never cracking a smile (and he's so pretty when he smiles). Serious work, that evil creature-ridding. But do you think he takes a break to see a show or something?

On the other hand, Dracula (Richard Roxburgh) seems to be having the time of his life and doesn't seem a bit conflicted about being evil. Maybe Van Helsing should take some notes.

I think the proliferation of this muscular moodiness is a reaction to our society's obsession with both feeling our pain and causing other people pain. You know how people like Dr. Phil because he's touchy-feely, but only to the point where you cheese him off? Make him mad, and he'll threaten to hogtie or bushwhack you or whatever they do in Texas.

In the 1950s, John Wayne played cowboys who were the height of manly manness. Their jobs -- to round up bad guys, save the stagecoach and girl, and then ride off into the sunset, leaving said girl weeping in her Mama's hankie. That was the game, people. They weren't all that conflicted, because the code was simple. Kill bad guy. Save day. Be strong, silent, and keep your emotional turmoil between you and the coyotes.

Even with the sensitive guys of the day, you knew where your butt-kicking bread was buttered. Take two of my favorite characters, drunk, bitter ranch-hand-turned-millionaire Jet Rink (James Dean) in Giant and lumbering, simmering brute Stanley Kowalski (Marlon Brando) in A Streetcar Named Desire. These were astonishingly hunky dudes who wore their well-practiced angst on their rolled-up sleeves. Even if they seemed initially datable, you went away understanding that they were poisonous messes.

Not anymore. All the time I was watching Man On Fire, or Troy, or Van Helsing, I got the feeling that we're supposed to want these guys, in all their sad-eyed, angsty glory. And I couldn't help thinking that while being with one of these guys might be initially exciting, at the end it's all brooding and blood.

Ultimately, how much fun is that?