The epic romance of Romeo and Juliet, or, why Shakespeare has been rolling over in his grave all summer

Last night, Jessica and I packed our picnic dinner and went to see the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival Performance of Romeo and Juliet. When I was first introduced to Shakespeare, I had a very cynical view of Romeo and Juliet because it represented so many cliches. But a few years ago, I read the play on my own and took a much loftier view of the drama. I thought seeing the play performed in Cambridge would confirm my more appreciative perspective of the play and hopefully rid me of those last few seeds of cynicism.

Juliet performed the balcony scene while speaking to her teddy bear.
Romeo jumped in the air every few minutes for no apparent reason, other than perhaps the same motivating factor that makes a ten-year-old boy yell when he's excited.
The two of them straightup made out for a good five minutes in front of Friar Lawrence.
And it rained through the entire first act. (Though, to be fair, the actors can't be held responsible for that.)

My appreciative view of the romance suffered, but I think the damage was curbed by the fact that Jessica and I left at intermission-- partially because the picnic blanket was soaked and the heavens showed no sign of letting up, and partially because our outbursts of irreverent laughter were becoming more and more frequent, and less and less dignified. In short, if Shakespeare had any intention for Romeo and Juliet to be played as anything other than a teenage Disney channel movie, I think he's been rolling over in artistic agony in his grave every evening between 7:30 and 10pm all summer.