In the glittering history of Hollywood television, there have been many famous duos. But none were quite like Tim Conway and Harvey Korman. They were the industry’s ultimate “Odd Couple,” a pairing that shouldn’t have worked, yet somehow created the most memorable moments of the 1970s.
Harvey Korman was a serious man. He was a classically trained actor, a perfectionist who treated comedy with the rigor of Shakespeare. He wanted structure. He wanted rehearsals. He wanted to know exactly where the scene was going.
Tim Conway, on the other hand, was a chaotic force of nature. He viewed a script not as a roadmap, but as a suggestion—one he usually ignored the moment the cameras started rolling.
The Backstage Ritual
Legend has it that before every taping of The Carol Burnett Show, a similar ritual would take place in the dressing rooms. Harvey, often anxious about the live audience, would corner Tim.
“Please, Tim,” Harvey would plead, adjusting his tie with nervous hands. “Just stick to the script tonight. The writers worked hard on this. I need to know my cues. Don’t do anything crazy.”
Tim would look at him with wide, innocent eyes. He would nod solemnly. “Of course, Harvey. I promise. Word for word.”
It was the biggest lie in show business. And deep down, Harvey knew it.
The Moment the Script Died
The magic of their partnership wasn’t in the lines they spoke; it was in the silence between them. There is a specific energy that shifts when Tim Conway decides to go “rogue.”
Take, for instance, the famous “Dentist” sketch. The script was straightforward. But as soon as the director shouted “Action,” Tim’s eyes would twinkle with a mischievous light. He wouldn’t just perform the scene; he would dismantle it.
Harvey, stuck in the dental chair (or the rocking chair, or the Nazi uniform), would see the change in Tim’s face. You could see the panic set in behind Harvey’s glasses. He wasn’t acting anymore. He was a man trapped in a cage with a comedic tiger.
Tim would drag out a silence for ten seconds, then twenty. He would mumble. He would shuffle. He would do things that defied all logic, specifically designed to torture Harvey.
The “Look” That Destroyed Him
Harvey often said, “Tim is the only person who can destroy me with a look.”
It wasn’t just that Tim was funny. It was that Tim was intimate. In front of millions of viewers, Tim would turn his back to the camera and make a face intended for an audience of one: Harvey Korman.
The audience at home loved it because they were witnessing a breakdown. Harvey Korman, the professional, the serious actor, would bite his lip. He would dig his fingernails into his palms. He would look at the ceiling, praying for strength.
But eventually, the dam would break. Harvey would explode into laughter, often hiding his face in his hands or burying his head in his arms. It was a total surrender.
Why We Still Watch Them Today
Critics sometimes called it “unprofessional” to break character. But they missed the point. Harvey wasn’t just laughing because Tim was being silly. He was laughing because he was watching his best friend create magic out of thin air.
That laughter was genuine. It was a signal to the audience that what they were seeing was special, unrepeatable, and alive.
We don’t see duos like this anymore. In an era of teleprompters and tight editing, we have lost the danger of live performance. But more than that, we miss the trust. Harvey Korman trusted Tim Conway completely. He knew that no matter how hard he laughed, or how far off the rails the sketch went, Tim would always catch him.
They were best friends until the very end. And every time we watch those grainy clips on YouTube, seeing Harvey wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, we aren’t just watching a comedy sketch. We are watching two men who truly loved working together, reminding us that sometimes, the best plan is to throw away the script and just enjoy the moment.