The 2002 Hong Kong crime thriller Infernal Affairs, directed by Andrew Lau and Alan Mak, was a seismic hit domestically, reinvigorating the local box office and sweeping the Hong Kong Film Awards. Its taut cat‑and‑mouse narrative and morally ambiguous ending proved so potent that it quickly spawned a franchise, culminating in the 2003 sequel Infernal Affairs III. While the second film was a prequel, this final chapter attempts a far more daring structural gambit, weaving together two parallel timelines—one set months before the original film’s events, and one set roughly a year after its tragic conclusion. The surviving anti‑hero, Lau Kin‑ming (Andy Lau), the triad mole who has infiltrated the police, now works in Internal Affairs, ostensibly cleared of suspicion after the death of his counterpart Chan Wing‑yan (Tony Leung). Haunted by guilt and paranoia, he attends therapy with Dr. Lee (Kelly Chen), Yan’s former court‑appointed therapist, while growing increasingly wary of Superintendent Yeung Kang‑wing (Leon Lai), the inscrutable head of the rival Security Wing. Intercut flashbacks reveal the dealings of Ming’s mentor, triad boss Hon Sam (Eric Tsang), with the shady mainland Chinese businessman Shen Cheng (Chen Daoming), a subplot once investigated by the late Superintendent Wong (Anthony Wong) but mysteriously halted by Yeung.
It is a truism of cinema that third instalments often see a series begin to unravel, and Infernal Affairs III is, regrettably, no exception. Widely regarded as the weakest link in the trilogy, it suffers from a narrative over‑complication that its predecessors deftly avoided. The great irony, and the film’s core tragedy, is that this decline stems not from creative laziness or formulaic repetition, but from an excess of ambition. Directors Lau and Mak, alongside screenwriters Felix Chong and Alan Mak, deliberately eschew a straightforward sequel or prequel, opting instead for a demanding, non‑linear structure that aims to function as both. The film “dances back and forth in time,” creating an intricate mosaic intended to deepen the psychological and moral quandaries of the saga. This structural ambition is commendable, but in execution, it renders the plot “tremendously confusing” and leaves pivotal questions frustratingly unanswered.
The film’s primary focus is the unraveling psyche of Lau Kin‑ming, and here it finds its greatest strength. Andy Lau delivers a brilliant, tormented performance, painting a portrait of a man buckling under the weight of his own deception. The script “warps up the tension as the stresses of his double life become intolerable,” and Lau masterfully conveys Ming’s escalating paranoia, guilt, and eventual dissociation from reality. Tony Leung returns as a ghostly presence in flashbacks, a constant reminder of the life Ming destroyed, while Eric Tsang and Anthony Wong reprise their roles effectively, albeit with their fates already known to the audience.
In a bid to inject new conflict, the film introduces two significant antagonists. Leon Lai’s Superintendent Yeung is played as an enigmatic, almost expressionless figure, a choice that works to cultivate mystery but can feel emotionally remote. More compelling is Chen Daoming’s Shen Cheng, a mainland businessman whose cold, calculated ambition brings a palpable threat and, implicitly, a layer of political commentary on Beijing’s growing influence in post‑1997 Hong Kong. Their inclusion, however, particularly Yeung’s, can feel like a retcon, a new layer of conspiracy grafted onto an already complex mythology.
On a technical level, the film retains the high production values and sleek style of the series. The cold, high‑tech police offices are a fitting backdrop for the clinical paranoia, and there are moments of genuine directorial bravura. A suspenseful sequence near the film’s climax and a major plot twist regarding a crucial audio tape provide genuine intrigue. Yet these virtues cannot compensate for the film’s fundamental pacing issues. The romantic subplot between Ming and Dr. Lee, which tilts delightfully into full‑blown romantic comedy in the earlier timeline, becomes overlong and drenched in pathos in the present, relying on cheap symbolism that slows the narrative to a crawl.
The finale attempts to bring a form of karmic justice to Ming, aligning with the Buddhist themes of spiritual consequence that underpinned the original film’s ending. However, this potentially powerful conclusion is “ruined by too much exposition and endless epilogues. The film seems unsure of how to end, delivering a “neverending epilogue” that meticulously explains twists the audience has already deduced, draining the ending of its emotional and philosophical impact.
Infernal Affairs III is a disappointing but ultimately serviceable conclusion to the trilogy. Its ambitions are noble, its central performance superb, and its aesthetic polish undeniable. Yet, by succumbing to narrative convolution, a languid romantic subplot, and a fatally over‑explained ending, it fails to recapture the taut, propulsive brilliance of the original.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
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