On live television, fear usually comes from forgetting a line.
Or missing a cue.
Or bombing in front of millions.
For Harvey Korman, none of that mattered.
What truly shook him was Tim Conway.
Working with Tim meant agreeing to one quiet rule: rehearsal was a suggestion, not a promise. They could run a sketch ten times, hit every beat, lock every line. Harvey would relax. His body would settle. That’s when Tim would strike — not loudly, not obviously. Just a small shift. A pause where there shouldn’t be one. A word swapped. A look held half a second too long.
No warning. Ever.
On The Carol Burnett Show, this was dangerous territory. Live TV doesn’t forgive hesitation. But Tim understood something most comedians don’t: real laughter lives right on the edge of collapse.
You can see it in Harvey’s eyes if you watch closely.
The instant his brain realizes the script is gone.
His shoulders tense. His mouth tightens. His breath shortens.
That’s the moment acting stops.
What the audience thought was comedy was actually survival. Harvey wasn’t “playing” a character anymore — he was trying not to lose it. Not to laugh. Not to break. Not to fall apart on camera while Tim calmly pushed him further, smiling like nothing was happening.
And that’s why it worked.
Because the laughter wasn’t just about jokes. It was about tension. About watching a brilliant professional being gently, mercilessly tested in real time. The audience felt it even if they didn’t know why. Their laughter came out louder, sharper, almost relieved.
Tim Conway never embarrassed Harvey out of cruelty. He did it out of trust. He knew Harvey was strong enough to survive the moment — and honest enough to let the audience see the cracks.
Decades later, those sketches still feel electric.
Not because they were perfect.
But because they weren’t.
The best comedy wasn’t planned.
It was captured — right when control disappeared.