TY - JOUR AU1 - Peiró, Eva Woods AB - The feature-length documentary Ciutat morta (literally, ‘dead city’) (Xavier Artigas and Xapo Ortega, 2013) chronicles the 2006 ‘4F’ (4 February) case of police corruption, racial and queer profiling, and unlawful torture of prison detainees in Barcelona. Derailing the official story told by mainstream media, the film probes the continuum between online and offline worlds. Navigating digital ‘emancipatory communication practices’1 and grassroots movement work in the highly policed Raval neighbourhood, Artigas and Ortega disrupt the commercialized media spaces in Barcelona and beyond. Ciutat morta is an event, a liberatory form of free culture activism, distributed both transmedially and geographically. Aligned with local movements, the national demonstrations of ‘15M’, and the global online archive of human rights videos, its mission is to witness, or ‘subveil’, abuse by states, their agents or corporations. ‘15M’ refers to 15 May 2011, when massive protests and occupations exploded in the squares of Spain’s principal cities, including a three-week occupation of Madrid’s Puerta del Sol. The most transformative movement since Spain’s transition to democracy in the 1970s, 15M and its myriad local manifestations responded to the 2008 financial and real-estate crisis which laid bare the disastrous effects of neoliberalism and the failure of the Spanish political system to deliver on its promises.2 Through Facebook, Twitter and blogs, the events of 15M grew into a global social revolution exemplified by #SpanishRevolution, the free-culture scene, internet activist groups such as NoLesVotes (Don’t vote for them), Anonymous and DRY (Democracia Real Ya, or Real Democracy Now).3 Like 15M, Ciutat morta uses the hashtag #4F to tell a story. As Zizi Papacharrisi says of hashtags operationalized for social movements in Egypt, Greece or the USA, these signifiers ‘serve as framing devices that allow crowds to be rendered into publics’; these networked and affective publics ‘want to tell their story collaboratively and on their own terms’.4Ciutat morta resembles other documentaries from the archive of 15M videoactivism.5 Like the Indignadxs movement, it tells the story of institutional and police violence, whose aim is to terrorize citizens into a state of fearful inactivity. The film homes in on this very moment of affective disengagement – fear of the police and systemic brutality. Yet when fear is overcome through communicative sharing and interacting it can transform into rage, which allows for risk-taking; further horizontal affective engagement through interactive, multidirectional and wireless communication can induce ‘deliberate social mobilization’, as Castells explains in relationship to social movement networks.6Ciutat morta appropriates this last phase of ‘affective intelligence’ and channels it into a toolkit for subveilling power and hacking the media enclosure through guerilla communication tactics that reimagine the networked public as a subject.7 By subveilling, or observing the state from below and uncovering human rights abuses, Ciutat morta interferes in state-controlled ‘lines of sight’,8 reframing the events of 4F through strategic CGI, digital editing and hacktivist aesthetics. These anti-surveillance (subveillance) tactics support visual and oral testimonies that expose the institutional violence of the system, showing its connections to other modes of oppression and demonstrating how resistance can be a DIY practice with material consequences – both physical and structural.9 This essay explores the tools through which Ciutat morta disrupts sedimented surveillant viewing practices in order to enable a tech-savvy political subjectivity that is digitally networked, geographically distributed and committed to media liberation and societal transformation. The central narrative of Ciutat morta recounts the events of 4 February 2006, when hundreds of people took part in a rave in an abandoned cinema. Responding to complaints about the noise, the Guardias urbanas, Barcelona’s urban police force, began arresting pedestrians in front of the building while people on the balconies threw objects such as clay flowerpots onto the officers, knocking one of them unconscious. With one policeman injured, the patrol immediately started to arrest random nearby pedestrians, three of whom were Latin Americans with Spanish passports: Rodrigo Lanza, Juan Pinto and Alex Cisterna. Two others – Patricia Heras and Alfredo Pestana – had not even been present at the scene but having been profiled as punk and queer (Heras had a Cyndi Lauper-style haircut) they were arrested for being at the same hospital where the wounded officer was admitted. At the police station the detainees were interrogated, tortured and then incarcerated for two years, while a trial full of irregularities dragged on. A forensic team certified that the flowerpot that injured the police officer must have fallen from above, and could not have been thrown from the street where pedestrians had gathered. Police, politicians, judges and the mainstream media nevertheless ignored the forensics report and closed ranks to defend the prosecution’s claims that the youths had thrown the pot. State and corporate media channels boycotted the defence’s side of the story, despite a leaked video of the original scene that showed the flowerpot being dropped from above and hitting the officer. Amnesty International denounced the prisoners’ treatment, but the Spanish legal system refused to reopen the case or investigate the allegations of corruption and torture.10 For the next five years, family, friends and political allies rallied support for the detainees through grassroots fundraising and social awareness campaigns. Ciutat morta interviews the former detainees, their family members, partners and friends, countering the official story by exonerating those who were unfairly accused, and condemning the corrupt system that surveilled, tortured and convicted them. It commemorates the life and struggle of poet and blogger Patricia Heras, or Patri, whose traumatic incarceration led to her suicide, by throwing herself off a balcony. Her poetry, read by her ex-partner in reflective interludes, alternates with pictures of her writings and photos, which anchor the film. The film’s original title was Poeta muerta. 4F: ni oblit ni perdó (Dead poet, 4F: neither forgetting nor forgiving). When Catalonia’s public television channel TV3 rejected the film, the directors changed the title to Ciutat morta, extending their attack to Barcelona’s glossy gentrification and neoliberal reforms synthesized in the institutional project Marca Barcelona (Barcelona’s Brand), a commercialized image of the city vigorously publicized since the 1992 Olympics, which draws on the increasingly popular Barça soccer team, and the city’s growing fame as a premier global tourist destination.11 In Ciutat morta, ‘Marca Barcelona’ stands guilty of the death of the poet, the city’s other soul. Ciutat morta feeds on born-digital material, open access digital archives, blogs, and wikis of witnessings and testimonies. Its digital allies collect and curate their struggles online and across platforms. In addition to a 4F archive on Verkami’s crowdfunding site,12 there have appeared a blog and book of poems by Heras,13 and the self-published book Ciutat morta: Crónica del caso del 4F (Dead city: chronicle of the 4F case).14 Avoiding mainstream media venues by necessity, the makers of Ciutat morta showed the film outside the festival circuit, arranging over 250 local and community screenings at which the concerns of audience members would help to shape the film.15 Its producer, Metromuster, states as its goal the active contribution to emancipatory audiovisual cultures and the Free Culture Movement.16Ciutat morta is freely available on the internet in several languages and on a variety of platforms – Youtube, Culture Unplugged, Vimeo and several others – and has received hundreds of thousands of hits. When TV3 finally agreed to broadcast it, over 15,000 people had already seen it on one of these sites. Although Ciutat morta won awards at upwards of ten prestigious festivals and enjoyed coverage in the culture pages of the mainstream press,17 Ortega stated that the film was ‘part of a larger performance’ designed to ‘wage an assault on power that doesn’t just speak to the choir but that occupies all cinema and television’, thus affirming its goal to exert social change in tandem with the aspiring mass social movement from which it emerged.18 Xavier Artigas and Xapo Ortega, aka Xavi and Xapo, met when working together on digital recordings of protests for the Audiovisual Subcommittee of the Occupation of Barcelona’s Catalunya Square. There they realized that video work calling into question the police’s version of events could be as powerful as an explosive social movement like 15M.19 They were inspired by the viralization of the digital video about Ester Quintana, a victim of police violence. Perdre un ull/Perder un ojo (To lose an eye), sponsored by the legal advocacy and activist group Rereguarda en moviment. Plataforma solidària contra la repressió (Rearguard in motion. Solidary platform against repression), received 250,000 hits in two days, and provoked mass awareness of Quintana’s case, and of other individuals who had lost an eye to rubber bullets shot by riot police. The video forced the dominant media outlets to cover the story, and the filmmakers realized that any story they told needed to have the same seismic impact. Online campaigning to fund the legal costs of the victims had made local activists aware of the 4F case. The challenge was how to poach and hack the media enclosure and its tools in order to optimize the reception of this story while maintaining the message of class struggle.20 Bringing Ciutat morta to the screen required multiple legally dubious manoeuvres and artistic forms of direct action serving a larger strategy of ‘dismantling the mediatic structure’.21 Understanding that activism must engage on both real and virtual fronts, the film could be seen as a response to Mark Andrejevic’s warnings about the digital enclosure,22 a closed, interactive arena where all exchanges and transactions are tracked, and all actions generate information about themselves. Ciutat morta thus empowers increasingly tech-savvy viewer-participants in liberating and democratizing access to information. Its first screening was a ‘happening’ at which more than 1000 people illegally occupied the abandoned Palacio del Cinema de Barcelona, renaming it Cinema Patricia Heras. The film’s first sequence documents the occupation and the screening, making the spectator a participant in this happening23 by metacinematically embedding the documentary within the social movement.24 For the San Sebastian International Film Festival, the directors had photoshopped a portrait of Barcelona’s mayor, Joan Clos, onto an image of a billboard, so that for online viewers who discovered this composite fake image, the film appeared to enjoy a prime promotional position at the Festival. Sporting two black rectangles, one with the words Ciutat morta covering his eyes and another with an announcement for the Festival over his mouth, the mayor’s muzzled face went viral. Stephanie Milan calls billboard liberation an emancipatory cultural practice that ‘expose[s] the contradictions of the system by […] opposing the frantic media consumption promoted by commercial broadcasters’.25 Xavi and Xapo retooled the language of advertising to ‘hack, decode and rebuild the political agenda’.26 By so doing, they flipped visual hierarchies, rendering sanctioned public figures anonymous and silent. A central aesthetic motif in the documentary is the visual glitch, or system crash. As a transition between titles and frames, this blizzard-like effect blurs images in and out of existence, adding suspense to the build-up of evidence. Accompanied by tinny, synthetic noises that emulate an electric glitch, trembling images come into focus, then fragment and crash out, as visual snow – that of a cathode ray screen – slowly fills the frame. The film ends with an extended long shot of Lanza leaving prison. He embraces a woman – a final metaphor of liberation. A horizontal band of subtitles crawls across the top of the screen summarizing the fates of the different protagonists as the title, 4F, reemerges in the frame (figure 1). The words crash and fizzle into static, and the brackets of 4F explode, multiplying, and as they rain downward, we see the credits roll (figure 2). The font imitates small brackets, a style the film had showed earlier on 4F protest posters and in the beginning titles of the film (figure 3). Fig. 1. View largeDownload slide 4F, with its bracket-like font, breaks through TV static, in Ciutat morta (Xavier Artigas and Xapo Ortega, 2013). Fig. 1. View largeDownload slide 4F, with its bracket-like font, breaks through TV static, in Ciutat morta (Xavier Artigas and Xapo Ortega, 2013). Fig. 2. View largeDownload slide The brackets explode, multiply and rain downwards. Fig. 2. View largeDownload slide The brackets explode, multiply and rain downwards. Fig. 3. View largeDownload slide The bracket font seen on a detail of a 4F poster. Fig. 3. View largeDownload slide The bracket font seen on a detail of a 4F poster. These brackets look like the ones that attach the trackpad of an Apple laptop to the underside of the keyboard. The track pad is an interface that turns finger touch into binary code to move a cursor on the screen. As I see it, the falling brackets suggest that knowledge of system hardware is essential to dismantling the system. Metaphors such as navigating, surfing and exploring the web tell us that we are powerful internet users but mask our subservience to machines that surveil, dataveil and trade us as objects of consumption. The (exploding) bracket font weaponizes an image from the material infrastructure of computer hardware, urgently questioning naive ideas about internet connectivity and liberation in the digital realm. When digital enclosures envelop us with or without our consent, categorizing us as tradable or disposable data, grounding ourselves in solid hardware is the only insurance against our erasure.27 Employing leaked, repurposed CCTV footage and other tactics, Ciutat morta comprises a toolbox of subveillance that redirects the criminalizing, surveillant gaze upon the system. Yet the makers of Ciutat morta also recognize that digital culture seamlessly incorporates surveillance into our aesthetics and our personal narratives. I see a parallel between Catherine Zimmer’s argument about surveillance cinema culture and the film’s purposeful enactment of ‘practices of surveillance [that] become representational and representational practices [that] become surveillant’.28 The entire 4F case revolved around a leaked, anonymous subveillance video shot from a balcony overlooking the place where the youths were arrested. When it appears, we see a split screen, the right half providing factual data (‘February 4th. Dawn. Sant Pere Més Baix Street, Barcelona. A party is celebrated at an occupied theatre’), the left half displaying the hand-held video footage. A metaphor for marginalized information, the half screen is nevertheless central to the case. We hear out-of-frame voices in real time (‘objects are falling from the roof of the building’) and see something fall. People – witnesses – on the street say ‘Don’t go over there, they are throwing objects from the building’. We hear things breaking, perhaps pottery. The video exonerates the accused, homing in on the formerly missing evidence that it was a falling flowerpot that hit the policeman. Later, a second leaked video provides CCTV footage of the closed police interrogation of Victor Gibanel, head of Information for Barcelona’s urban police force. Gibanel wrote a report stating that the flowerpot had been thrown from the balcony or roof above, but the footage shows the authorities accusing Gibanel of lying about the evidence. Both videos contained evidence that the press would not cover, for fear of retribution. A third section, ‘Tortura’ contains additional leaked CCTV videos of guards beating up detainees. In the first of four videos, guards brutalize a male prisoner and in the second, two female guards slap a woman prisoner and pull her to the ground. The wrongful detainment and abuse of these youths highlights the impunity of Barcelona’s Mossos d’esquadra (police troopers) who had racked up numerous denouncements for mistreatment and torture in the seven years since their inception in 1999.29 Throughout the documentary, urban guerrilla subveillance disrupts the normative lines of sight that enable predestined conclusions. Bypassing conventional documentary objectivity and forms of attention, the filmmakers unapologetically subject our gaze to the demands of Ciutat morta. In an early subveillant medium shot, a guard keeps watch at the door of the Guardia urbana. A clock dial is superimposed on the frame. Now the camera pans over to the sidewalk, the clock dial still mediating our view. Three shots follow: first, ordinary pedestrians – a shot one might see in promotional tourism videos; second, a sidewalk advertisement for paella; third, a postcard stand. Together these views symbolize Spanish normativity, representing the iconic images of Spanish tourism, or ‘Marca Barcelona’. Initially the semi-transparent clockface seems innocuous – perhaps part of an official video – but time is running out, or more accurately, what is pictured is out of time and out of date. In other words, normative Spanish culture is out of synch with a grassroots movement that refuses to consume these images in the customary way they are delivered. Another deviation from state-mandated lines of sight involves the mug shot, historically used to identify and classify criminals. The directors insert actual mug shots of Lanza into an interview in which he recalls lying in a pool of blood bigger than his body after being tortured. Here the mug shot is leverage against the police. The black and white photograph, normally proof of a person’s criminality, is instead a closeup of Lanza’s bruised face, obstructing the conventional lines of sight that legitimize the system’s violence. In Ciutat morta, subveillance redirects state-controlled lines of sight. Handheld and mobile phone cameras record subveillant footage of police surveilling protesters in action. These small tools can be held overhead in a crowd, or used covertly thanks to their ability to camouflage video recording with texting or taking a selfie. Surveillant panning, or the crash zoom, a common technique of surveillant narration, simulates a handheld camera or a PTZ (pan tilt zoom) surveillance camera that pans across and quickly zooms into an object. Here this strategy is reversed. After Cisterna’s account of his torture and how his injuries required emergency care, the film cuts to the entrance of Hospital del Mar, where Cisterna and Lanza were treated. In a continuous shot it pans to the left to capture a tourist bus, then lets it pass, leaving only the seascape and the outline of a ship on the horizon. Abruptly the camera zooms in on the ship. Although it is unclear why the ship is important, the sudden action of the camera simulates a highly vigilant, preemptive mode of viewing, in which an ordinarily unsuspicious object must be made legible so as to reveal its potential threat. Interrupting accustomed, predetermined lines of sight, the visual narrative urges us to question the political framing of vision.30 The film contains three such subveillant operations. In the first the camera shows several rows of riot guards. It zooms in quickly to one guard; he sees the camera, fingers his mouthpiece, threatening to report the filming, and the video abruptly ends. In another instance Gibanel is unknowingly subjected to subveillance when he is spotted at a peaceful protest related to 4F. As he stands against a store front with two agents, the camera maintains its gaze on him until one of the other agents sees the camera and the recording abruptly stops. In a third and more troubling use of subveillance the film discloses the identity of Bakari Samyang, a high-ranking officer and trainer for the elite corps of the Guardia urbana. Samyang helped torture the three Latin American youths and he joined in the chorus of ‘sudacas de mierda’ (fucking spics) before and during the torture. In the segment titled ‘Racism’, Lanza admits that he found it ‘tragicomic’ that a man of colour – Samyang is a Spaniard of African descent – would participate in racist violence. The next sequence shows Samyang practising boxing at a gym, a video he himself had uploaded onto YouTube. One message is clear in this video: Samyang is a highly trained fighter in excellent condition who, without a weapon, could easily kill another human being. The gym, the posters on the wall, the music playing, and the punching and kicking are anathema to the aesthetic of peaceful protest argued for by some factions of the 15M movement.31 This postcolonial middle-man of colour is subveilled, made hypervisible in dangerously impressive, stereotypical terms. Has the desire – fuelled by digital media – to surveil everything turned this particular subveillance into mere voyeurism? This problematic moment is never resolved. The semi-transparent clockface superimposed onto the frame returns, directing us once again to the theme of vindication: it is only a matter of time before the whole structure of abuse, torture and oppression comes down, and those who collaborate with the system will be accounted for, followed and watched. The gym sequence is followed by leaked footage from the trial in which Samyang denies ever taking part in acts of torture. We then move to subveillance of him at one of the 15M protests (27 May 2011), and finally to a 4F protest where the audible chant ‘desmontaje 4F’ (takedown 4F) accompanies a banner reading, ‘6 years of corruption and torture’ and ‘Bakari Samyang and Victor Bayona, police torturers’. The banners are both verdict and sentence: for all perpetrators of injustice, punishment involves public exposure as agents of repression. If access to and control over communication technologies and information are the foundation of social, political and economic control in contemporary society,32Ciutat morta deploys guerrilla communication tactics to disrupt the digital enclosures of media and neoliberal commerce, or as Amador Fernández Savater puts it, to poke ‘holes in the institutional definition of reality’ so as to bring about ‘new meanings for social life’.33 Honouring the tradition of revolutionary documentary filmmaking while updating it with digital tools, open access archivalization and distribution, the film amplifies the visibility and impact of Indignadxs-inspired media practice. As commercially owned networks further invade the private realm, the processes of identity, personal relationships and pleasure are increasingly implicated in surveillance.34Ciutat morta offers a model for future counter-information projects that desire to obstruct the efforts of mainstream media to determine the meanings for subjects. Its growing number of views on YouTube (as of 12 October 2017, the three online versions totalled over 60,000 views) demonstrates the traction that it has already made towards imagining alternatives for the self-determination of a ‘cultural and communicative future’.35 Eva Woods Peiró has written this essay in the context of the Research Project ‘Transnational relations in Spanish-American digital cinema: the cases of Spain, Mexico and Argentina’ (CSO2014-52750-P), funded by the Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness of the Spanish Government and co-financed by the European Regional Development Fund (ERDF). Footnotes 1 On ‘emancipatory communication practices’, see Stephania Milan, Social Movements and their Technologies: Wiring Social Change (London: Palgrave, 2013). 2 See Isabel Estrada, ‘Democrazy in Spain: cinema and new forms of social life in the twenty-first century’, Modern Language Notes, vol. 132, no. 2 (2017), pp. 386–406, and the double issue dedicated to ‘Spain in crisis: 15-M and the culture of indignation’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, no. 15, no. 1/2 (2014), in particular, Kostis Kornetis, ‘Is there a future in this past?: analyzing 15M’s intricate relation to the Transición’, pp. 83–98. 3 Ismael Peña-López, Mariluz Congosto and Pablo Aragón, ‘Spanish indignados/as and the evolution of the 15M Movement on Twitter: towards networked “para-institutions”’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, vol. 15, no. 1/2 (2014), pp. 189–216. 4 Zizi Papacharissi, ‘Affective publics and structures of storytelling: sentiment, events and mediality’, Information, Communication and Society, vol. 9, no. 3 (2015), pp. 307–24. Defining ‘affective publics’ further, Papacharissi writes that they are ‘public formations that are textually rendered into being through emotive expressions that spread virally through networked crowds’. Ibid., p. 320. 5 See ‘Lista de documentales’, 15Mpedia, accessed 7 April 2018; I would also include films as varied as #Indignados (Antoni Verdaguer, 2011), Quiero (Anonymous, 2011), Video Dérives (Flavio G. García, 2011) and Tres instantes, un grito (Cecilia Barriga, 2013). 6 Manuel Castells, Redes de indignación y esperanza, trans. María Hernández (Madrid: Alianza, 2012), p. 210. 7 The idea of the ‘network as subjectivity’ (la red se convirtió en sujeto) is theorized by Castells, in ibid, p. 133. 8 Louise Amoore, ‘Lines of sight: on the visualization of unknown futures’, Citizenship Studies, vol. 13, no. 1 (2009), pp. 17–30. 9 Jonathan Snyder, A Poetics of Opposition in Contemporary Spain. Politics and the Work of Urban Culture (New York, NY: Palgrave, 2015), p. 3. 10 See more at the website of online documentary distributor Metromuster, 3boxmedia, accessed 7 April 2018. 11 See Alfredo Martínez Expósito, Cuestión de imagen: cine y Marca España (Vigo and Pontevedra: Academia del Hispanismo, 2015), pp. 247–67. 12 See ‘Ciutat Morta: Crónica del caso 4F’, Verkami, accessed 7 April 2018. 13 Patricia Heras, Poeta Muerta. Escritos (Barcelona: Capirote, 2014). 14 Mariana Huidobro, Helen Torres and Katu Huidobro, Ciutat morta. Crónica del caso 4F (2016). 15 Anxo Abuín González, ‘Táctica frente a estrategia: Transmedialidad y activism en Ciutat morta’, Tropelías. Revista de Teoría de la Literatura y Literatura Comparada, vol. 27 (2017), pp. 110–19. 16 See ‘Ciutat Morta. Crónica del caso 4F’, and Metromuster accessed 7 April 2018. 17 A full list of festivals can be seen on its producer’s site, 3boxmedia, accessed 7 April 2018. 18 Nando Cruz, interview with Xapo Ortega, ‘“Ciutat morta” es una herramienta transformadora’, Nativa, 7 June 2015, accessed 7 April 2018. 19 ‘El Documental que ha revolucionado la ciudad’, Ojocontuojo, 20 January 2015, accessed 7 April 2018. 20 Nando Cruz, interview with Xapo Ortega. 21 Ibid. 22 Mark Andrejevic, iSpy: Surveillance and Power in the Interactive Era (Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 2007). 23 On 15M happenings, see Snyder, A Poetics of Opposition, pp 1–25. 24 Abuín González, ‘Táctica frente a estrategia’, p.113. 25 Milan, Social Movements, p. 10. 26 Nando Cruz, interview with Xapo Ortega. 27 See David Lyons, ‘“Surveillance after Snowden” at the Goethe-Institut New York’, Artforum, accessed 7 April 2018. 28 Catherine Zimmer, Surveillance Cinema (New York, NY: New York University Press, 2015), pp. 2, 76. 29 Marc Font, ‘Los abusos policiales en Catalunya, una realidad más allá de “Ciutat morta”’, Público, 24 January 2015, accessed 7 April 2018. 30 Amoore, ‘Lines of sight’. 31 John Postill, ‘Spain’s indignados and the mediated aesthetics of non-violence’, in Pnina Werbner, Martin Webb and Kathryn Spellman-Poots (eds), The Political Aesthetics of Global Protest: The Arab Spring and Beyond (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), pp. 346–48. 32 Manuel Castells, Communication Power (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2009). 33 Amador Fernández-Savater, ‘Notes for a non-statocentric politics’, Critical Legal Thinking, 21 April 2014, accessed 7 April 2018. 34 Henry Jenkins, Sangita Shresthova, Liana Gamber-Thompson, Neta Kliger-Vilanchic and Arely Zimmerman, By Any Media Necessary: The New Youth Activism (New York, NY: New York University Press, 2016). 35 Milan, Social Movements, p. 10. © The Author(s) 2018. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of Screen. All rights reserved This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/about_us/legal/notices) TI - Subveillant narration, digital tools and videoactivism: Ciutat morta (2013) JF - Screen DO - 10.1093/screen/hjy027 DA - 2018-06-12 UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/subveillant-narration-digital-tools-and-videoactivism-ciutat-morta-QRixWRYIOC SP - 1 EP - 257 VL - Advance Article IS - 2 DP - DeepDyve ER -