When Tim Conway Broke Harvey Korman: The Comedy That Still Leaves Audiences Breathless
There are comedy moments you laugh at — and then there are moments that completely undo you. For Harvey Korman, that moment often had one name: Tim Conway.
On The Carol Burnett Show, Conway didn’t simply tell jokes. He constructed chaos slowly, deliberately, and with a timing so precise that no one onstage stood a chance. Nowhere was that brilliance more obvious than in the legendary sketch where he played The Oldest Man — a character who moved so slowly it seemed to defy logic, patience, and even the laws of television rhythm.
The Setup That Never Stood a Chance
Harvey Korman was meant to be the steady anchor of the scene. The composed professional. The actor who could keep things moving no matter what happened.
But the second Tim Conway shuffled into frame — dragging one foot behind the other like a creaking door hinge — Harvey’s fate was sealed.
He would start strong, trying to deliver his lines with dignity. Then the tremor would begin. A twitch in the shoulder. A tightening around the mouth. A grin fighting to stay hidden.
And then it would happen.
Harvey would collapse into laughter.
In one unforgettable moment, he buried his head against the desk, gasping for breath, whispering through tears, “I swear, he’s trying to kill me.”
Precision in Slow Motion
The audience erupted — not just because Conway was funny, but because they could see the battle unfolding in real time.
Carol Burnett, often just off-camera, would cover her face, already knowing what was coming next. Conway wasn’t finished. He would stretch the bit even further.
- A slower step.
- A longer pause.
- A blink that seemed to last a full minute.
He wasn’t rushing toward a punchline. He was testing the limits of endurance — how long could he extend the silence before someone broke?
The answer was always the same.
Not long.
The Joy Behind the Chaos
What made the sketch unforgettable wasn’t simply the absurdity of the character. It was the chemistry between the performers.
Tim Conway wasn’t trying to embarrass Harvey Korman. He was inviting him into a shared mischief. Their laughter wasn’t accidental — it was the byproduct of trust and friendship.
Pure, childlike play met the helpless laughter of a man who adored his co-star.
That’s what audiences connected to. Not just the joke — but the joy behind it.
Why It Still Works
Decades later, viewers still revisit those sketches convinced they can keep a straight face this time.
And decades later, they still fail.
Because once Tim Conway begins that impossibly slow shuffle across the stage, something magical happens. The script dissolves. The timing stretches. The scene teeters on the edge of collapse.
And Harvey Korman — the consummate professional — falls apart in the most delightful way possible.
Comedy doesn’t always need speed or sharp punchlines. Sometimes it needs patience. Sometimes it needs silence. And sometimes, it just needs one man moving so slowly that everyone else loses control.
Once Tim Conway slowed down… the rest of the world sped up with laughter.