Resident Evil: Requiem opens with a confidence that borders on... well, predatory. From its first moments, it's clear that the developers understand atmosphere as a bloodstream as opposed to a decorative layer. The air feels thick. The silences feel intentional. As with the previous games, Capcom deftly demonstrate a damn near surgical degree of control over tone. The result is, fortunately, one that manages to drag a player under rather than just lure them in.
The brutality is striking - points all around for that. Not gratuitous in a juvenile sense, but shocking in a way that restores danger to a franchise long familiar with excess, and one that managed its execution perfectly in the seventh mainline game. Several cutscenes land with genuine jaw-dropping force. Violence in Requiem is staged with deliberation and it often feels consequential. Well done, developers, for succeeding in making the horror experiential.
Among the game's new threats, the so-called "Girl" stands as an instant fucking icon, good god. Her presence - her stalking, the relentless percussion of her footsteps - evokes a primal anxiety that even the towering figures of the Tyrant or Nemesis struggled to achieve at their most operatic. And she doesn't rely on scale alone, oh no. She weaponizes proximity and rhythm. In doing so, she earns her place among the series' most memorable monsters. Bitch scared me silly.
On the human side, Victor Gideon is rendered with remarkable nuance. The performance is layered and charismatic without slipping into caricature, and keep in mind that caricature is safe ground for Resident Evil - it's allowed, it's part of the fabric of this game franchise. Yet he commands attention whenever he appears, and I sense that the actor fully understood the tonal register the game demanded. Leon is a great contrast, as he tends to remain almost mythic in his composure. He's cool to the point of abstraction, y'all. He functions as a stabilizing axis for the narrative, a figure shaped by trauma yet never consumed by it.
The same cannot be said for Grace. No, it really fucking cannot. As a character, she strains credibility. Look, I can overlook a certain degree of timidity in an FBI agent thrust into extraordinary circumstances: fear is human. What proves more difficult to reconcile is the manner of its portrayal.
The performance frequently veers into exaggeration so pronounced that it fractures immersion. I grow irritated just typing this as I recount the constant stuttering and hyperbole that is her collective on-screen time. Her reactions feel less like the irrationality of terror and more like the artificiality of scripting. Instead of embodying a person unraveling under pressure, she is fucking entirely constructed for effect, her gestures and expressions repeating in ways that become distracting rather than feeling like a genuine nod to, say, neurodivergence in an untenable situation. It's rare for a protagonist in this franchise to feel like an obstacle to one's own engagement, yet Grace occasionally approaches that threshold.
Also, why the hell does she never close her mouth? Bitch may as well not even have lips. I seent her teeth more in the 9 hours it took me to play this game than I seent my goddamn own choppers in my entire life.
Mechanically, the hide-and-seek sequences, brief as they are, continue a long, long, long standing series tradition of overstaying their welcome. On a first playthrough, sure, they sustain tension. On subsequent runs, they risk becoming procedural interruptions. Allowing these sections to be streamlined or bypassed would only strengthen replayability, which remains one of the series' core virtues. I will not be replaying this one, and it's partly because I know I'm going to have to suffer through the slow-paced sneaking section within the orphanage again.
One of the game's most impressive achievements is its integration of franchise history. References to the events and tonal shifts of Resident Evil 7 and Village are woven in with subtlety rather than fanfare. And again, fanfare is safe ground. They could have gone that route and it wouldn't have been worse off for it. But with how they orchestrated these gestures and nods, the effect is organic, akin to the way Alien: Romulus gestures toward the mythic scaffolding laid by Prometheus and Alien: Covenant without completely collapsing into exposition, god help us all. The continuity feels earned.
Leon's return to the RPD and the Kendo shop exemplifies this restraint quite well: these sequences could have devolved into indulgence, but instead, they function as quiet meditations on memory. His recollection of the gunshop owner and his daughter could be argued as being nothing but a sentimental aside, but more accurately it serves as a clarifying force, sharpening his resolve. The city's ruins are a backdrop, yes, but they're also a mirror that reflects that trauma lingering in the architecture. Another outstanding section.
If there is a misstep in the realm of nostalgia, it's the reappearance of the Super Tyrant. Where other callbacks feel purposeful, this one edges toward spectacle for spectacle's sake - a "greatest hits" moment that momentarily breaks the game's otherwise careful calibration, a lot like how Siegmeyer of Catarina and Andre the Blacksmith from Dark Souls somehow show up in Dark Souls III.
Similarly curious is the absence of a stronger response from Sherry regarding the orphanage. Given her history of, you know, being threatened and hunted by a fucking serial killer, her silence feels conspicuous. I wouldn't go so far as to say the omission derails the narrative, but it's one hell of a missed opportunity for emotional resonance.
The aesthetic rendering of Raccoon City's ruins carries an unexpected echo of Paul W. S. Anderson's Resident Evil: Apocalypse. Whether intentional or not, the visual homage is strangely delightful. These sections, however, are more expansive than what the series traditionally offers. The openness lends scale but occasionally diffuses urgency, making certain exploration segments feel longer than necessary. Familiarity on repeat playthroughs may well temper this sensation, so it's not a huge complaint.
As with many entries in the franchise, the conclusion arrives abruptly. This time, the lack of conventional catharsis feels deliberate. We are left not with tidy closure, but with lingering lore and bold narrative decisions, one in particular that demonstrates admirable narrative nerve. Resolution is partial, and implication is plentiful.
So to round it all up, Resident Evil: Requiem stands as a worthy successor to the revitalizing brilliance of its immediate predecessors. It's perhaps slightly overlong, it's occasionally... scratch that, frequently undermined by an uneven central performance. Still, its atmosphere, its creature design, its performances elsewhere, and its willingness to engage thoughtfully with its own history secure its place among the stronger modern entries. If this is the direction forward, the future of the franchise remains compelling. Don't let me down.
And Grace, close your goddamn mouth, please.