There is literally nothing to become hopelessly enamored with in Hate Story 3. It is the story of two, exceptionally irritable men who despise one another with every one of their guts and incubate senseless schemes. The whys and wherefores of their activities and expressions are covered in riddle until the very end of the film, by which time it stops to matter who wins and who loses.
The young ladies, aside from all the hip-squirming, chest hurling and midriff-blazing that constitute standard charge in such realistic piffle, play second fiddle. The two ladies in the plot get pushed around like feeble pawns on a chessboard that has no rulers, dark or white.
Notwithstanding when they move to the tune of others, they don’t make a big deal about an impression. Given that Hate Story 3 is a sexual thriller, this can just spell calamity. Not that the two on-screen characters saddled with this pair of inadequately composed parts would have fared any better had they been given meatier scenes to establish and more significant lines to talk.
Once in a while the film stops dead to make space for hot groupings organized in swimming pools, smoky clubs and, obviously, between the sheets, to the backup of awkward numbers.