When Isidore William Schlesinger, a five-foot-two salesman from New York’s Lower East Side, arrived in Cape Town in 1896 with just a fob watch from his mother, SA was in the throes of the gold rush. But IW, as he became known, sought his fortune above ground. Travelling the veld by horse and buggy, he sold life insurance to miners and Swazi chiefs before launching his own company. As Johannesburg boomed, so did Schlesinger’s empire, which included insurance, real estate, cinemas, catering and hotels. He introduced American-style chain stores and “tea room bioscopes” (a combined café and movie theatre) to SA and became one of the country’s most powerful businessmen.
One of his more offbeat ventures was film. At a time when Hollywood was still in its infancy, Schlesinger was building sets and shooting large-scale productions on the outskirts of Johannesburg on a farm called Killarney, complete with extras and elaborate backdrops. Though he poured millions into his dream of turning the city into a global movie capital, the plan fizzled out, and IW’s story faded from public memory.
In his intriguing, highly entertaining book Hollywood on the Veld: When Movie Mayhem Gripped the City of Gold, Ted Botha brings to light this improbable chapter of Joburg’s history. Here he talks about writing the book, the shifting identity of Johannesburg and why SA stories deserve to be told.
Why Schlesinger? Why Johannesburg? Why now?
Honestly, this book has haunted me for two decades. The seed was planted when I saw a pair of old black-and-white photographs as a child. They were clearly stills from a film, but not from Hollywood. These were from somewhere in SA.
I was completely intrigued. For years, I asked around. Eventually, I heard the name: Isidore Schlesinger. He was this mysterious American millionaire who came to SA, made his fortune and then decided, before Hollywood had even found its feet, that he would build a movie empire in Johannesburg.
The idea stuck with me. In 2004, I mentioned it to my agent in New York. At first he was enthusiastic. But as I kept digging and couldn’t find much concrete material, his interest faded. Eventually, he told me, “This isn’t an American story.” I completely disagreed. It’s absolutely an American story: ambition, risk, spectacle, but transplanted to SA. That’s what makes it even more interesting.
How long did it take you to write the book?
That’s a deceptively simple question. The final manuscript took about six months to complete, but the process of writing it took nearly 20 years. I started researching Schlesinger in earnest in the early 2000s, going to libraries, digging through archives, collecting fragments. The New York Public Library was much more useful than SA archives, which often lack cataloguing or access.
Over time, I wrote other books, but Schlesinger was always there in the background. His inaccessibility became part of the obsession. It was like I had to crack this story. And then, while working on Daisy de Melker, I realised I had to finally commit and finish this one.
Tell us more about Schlesinger’s foray into film.
In 1913, he saw that Johannesburg’s theatres were failing. The city had plenty of entertainment — vaudeville, boxing, skating — but the venues were losing money. He bought them cheaply and began producing films to show alongside live acts.
Hollywood didn’t yet exist in any real sense, and Europe led the film industry. But Schlesinger saw potential in Johannesburg: good light, space and a growing audience. He started African Film Productions and made over 40 films, including early versions of King Solomon’s Mines and The Blue Lagoon. He also built Killarney Film Studios, the first in Africa.
One of his early films, Winning a Continent, was famously ambitious.
From the start, Schlesinger thought big. While most films at the time were 10-15 minutes long with static sets, he wanted epics. For Winning a Continent, he staged a large-scale recreation of the Battle of Blood River outside Johannesburg. It was logistically complex, politically sensitive, and chaotic. He modelled his work on American and Italian spectacles — think Cabiria or The Birth of a Nation. That’s what’s so striking: he was creating cinematic epics when the global film industry was still figuring itself out.
His influence went far beyond film.
Indeed. He bought radio stations and created the African Broadcasting Corporation in 1930, which later became the SABC. He built grand cinemas across the country that matched anything in London or New York.
And yet, most people don’t know his name. That’s part of what drew me to the story. He was hugely influential but left almost no trace. There are no plaques, no retrospectives. But once you dig, you realise he shaped almost every part of our entertainment infrastructure.
How did you manage the gaps in his story?
Very carefully. As a journalist, I believe in truth. But narrative non-fiction often requires you to draw connections where documentation doesn’t exist. When I had nothing solid to work from, I tried to build an informed, plausible version of events. I’d ask: what does everything else I know about this man suggest he would do?
But I never wanted to fictionalise. Readers can sense when you’re making things up. I worked hard to ground the narrative in actual material. Even without a complete record, you can build something structurally sound with what you have.
What did you discover about Schlesinger the man?
The stories that have survived are often negative, with him yelling at staff, throwing trays, refusing teatime. But many of these are urban legends. They’ve stuck because they’re vivid, not necessarily because they’re true. There’s no real counter-narrative. No authorised biography. When you compare him with Hollywood producers of the same era, Schlesinger comes off fairly well. He was a visionary who loved SA and believed in the power of film.
How did you get into writing in the first place?
I started as a journalist in SA. I wrote for almost every publication, including Weekly Mail and Cosmopolitan. It was a different time, and freelancers jumped between beats. But eventually I hit a ceiling. I started pitching stories abroad and moved to New York.
There, I quickly learnt that none of my experience mattered. You’re expected to work your way up: editorial assistant, assistant editor, and so on. I ended up as a copy editor at Entertainment Weekly, which was humbling but also fascinating. The copy desk was full of brilliant misfits.
Why do SA stories struggle to gain global recognition?
Because we second-guess ourselves. We assume our stories are too niche or too local. But a good story is a good story. Look at Australia: 20 years ago, their literary scene was overlooked. Now they’re everywhere. We have the same quality of writers here. What we lack is belief, infrastructure, and the means to adapt books into global film and TV.
You’ve lived all over the world. Why does Johannesburg still inspire you?
Like many great cities, it’s messy, contradictory, sometimes frustrating, but never boring. It’s got layers. It’s got ghosts. And it’s got stories that haven’t been told.
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