Is it possible to recommend a movie based on a single scene alone? If it’s The Forbidden Kingdom, the answer is an obvious “Yes”. This long-awaited pairing of Hong Kong action movie giants Jackie Chan and Jet Li is a scattershot combination of Eastern promise and Western gobbledygook. Yet thanks to a wicked wire-fu confrontation between the aging icons and some additional high-flying fisticuffs, we gladly suffer the uneven casting and mangled mythology.

In this made-up movie legend loosely based on Chinese literary epic Journey to the West, an immortal known as the Monkey King (Li), is turned to stone by the evil Jade Warlord (Collin Chou). Robbed of his magic staff, the Monkey King is destined to remain forever frozen. A prophecy states that every 500 years someone is sent on a quest to return the prized pole. This time around, it is South Boston’s own rabid martial arts fanboy Jason Tripitikas (Michael Angarano). While helping some thugs rob an old Chinese shop owner (Jackie Chan), he is whisked back to ancient times. There, he teams up with drunken Master Lu Yan (Chan again) and the Silent Monk (Li again) to give the king his rod. They are also helped by the Golden Sparrow (Liu Yifei) and tracked by white-haired Ni Chang (Li Bingbing).

Let’s end the suspense, shall we, and get to the part where Chan and Li strap it on. Like all quality professionals, they transform the insane fight choreography from action choreographer Yuen Woo-ping into an athletic ballet. Their big battle, in essence a standoff between grace (Chan) and gravitas (Li), is a sight to behold. It is everything you’d ever want in a one-on-one face-off – close calls, unbelievable acrobatics, carefully constructed (and landed) combinations, and a sense that both men are enjoying the hell out of the experience. If all of The Forbidden Kingdom had been this electrifying, we’d have a Western-made kung fu classic on our hands.

But director Rob Minkoff fumbles the very foundation of the narrative, providing a young white male lead who is dull and ineffectual. Angarano’s teeny-bopper pin-up power can’t overshadow an inherent weakness. He simply is out of place, as if teleported over from a chop-socky version of The Goonies – or worse, an unnecessary update of that tired 3 Ninjas franchise from the ’90s. Minkoff has his own issues, too. While the Stuart Little films may have earned him some cred, helming the Eddie Murphy offal known as The Haunted Mansion has obviously affected his stylistic designs. The movie looks flat, the CGI backdrops no more convincing than a trip to Tatooine on a Commodore 64.

Luckily, the Eastern element of the production saves enough filmic face to keep us interested. Had Minkoff stayed centred in true Chinese tradition, had he built his movie out of the same good vs evil, honour vs duty dynamic that fuelled Hong Kong studios like the Shaw Brothers’ for eons, this movie would have been much more than a mere meeting of two kung fu kings. As it stands, we have to suffer through 90 minutes of mediocrity to get a half hour of fabulous flying fists. The clash between these motion picture pioneers is more than worth the price of admission. Too bad the rest of the movie is a waste.

Bill Gibron