Tim Conway never needed elaborate props, complicated plots, or even airtight logic to create comedy history. All he required was a perfectly timed pause, a strange little movement, or a line delivered just slightly off-center. And somehow, that was enough to turn Harvey Korman into a helpless puddle of laughter on national television.
In one unforgettable montage of their greatest sketches, Conway seems to move through scenes with a singular mission: make Harvey lose control. He slips when no one expects it. He stumbles just a second too long. He mumbles lines that almost make sense — but not quite. Each tiny choice becomes a comedic landmine waiting to detonate.
Harvey would begin every sketch determined to remain professional. Back straight. Voice steady. Eyes focused. But Conway had an uncanny ability to sense exactly how far he could push a moment without breaking it completely.
A wobbling step here.
A twitching eyebrow there.
And then, of course, the legendary slow-motion turn as “The World’s Oldest Man,” a movement stretched so painfully long it felt like time itself had surrendered. The audience would start laughing before the turn even finished — because they knew what was coming next: Harvey fighting a losing battle.
What made it extraordinary wasn’t just that Harvey laughed. It was that the laughter felt uncontrollable, genuine, and contagious. Viewers weren’t watching actors perform jokes. They were watching two masters react to each other in real time.
Carol Burnett once summed it up perfectly: “You can’t rehearse magic like this.” The brilliance wasn’t in memorized punchlines — it was in trust. Conway knew Harvey would try to stay composed. Harvey knew Tim would push him. That tension became the heartbeat of every sketch.
The result was comedy so pure it felt almost accidental, even though it was built on years of timing and instinct. Conway didn’t overpower scenes; he gently unraveled them, thread by thread, until laughter became inevitable.
Decades later, those moments still circulate, still spark tears of laughter, still remind audiences that sometimes the funniest thing in the room is simply one performer refusing to rush the moment.
Because when Tim Conway decided to lean into the absurd, Harvey Korman never stood a chance — and that was exactly the point.
