Tim had a singular, laser-focused goal: break Harvey Korman.
And he did it the most diabolical way possible.
There were no big punchlines. No wild gestures. No obvious cues. Conway’s weapon was restraint. He’d pause a beat too long. Blink at exactly the wrong moment. Deliver an absurd line with the calm sincerity of a monk taking a vow of silence. And Carol — ever the battlefield commander — could see the collapse coming a mile away.
Harvey tried everything. He clenched his jaw. He stared into space. He begged with his eyes. None of it mattered. The second Tim slipped in one of those “harmless” improvisations, Harvey was gone — folded over, wheezing, tears streaming, the scene officially unsalvageable.
What makes it legendary is that Tim never chased the laugh. He waited. He trusted the timing. He trusted Harvey’s inability to survive it.
Years later, Carol finally said it out loud: this wasn’t accidental chemistry.
It was a long, affectionate campaign of comedic sabotage — executed with patience, love, and surgical precision.
And that’s why those moments still feel alive. Because the best comedy isn’t about control. It’s about knowing exactly when to let everything fall apart.
