Tim Conway never needed elaborate props, clever plot twists, or even basic logic to steal a scene. All it took was one perfectly absurd movement — a stumble, a pause, a look — and Harvey Korman was already fighting a losing battle against uncontrollable laughter.
In what has since become a legendary collection of moments, Conway moved through sketches as if unpredictability itself were scripted. He slipped when no one expected it, froze mid-step for reasons known only to him, and mumbled lines just strangely enough to derail the rhythm of the scene. Each choice felt accidental, yet devastatingly precise.
Harvey Korman, a consummate professional, always began with determination. He stood tall, delivered his lines cleanly, and tried with all his might to maintain composure. But Conway had an uncanny instinct for timing — sensing the exact moment to strike when resistance was weakest.
Sometimes it was nothing more than a wobble. Other times, it was a twitch of an eyebrow or a sudden, illogical pause that stretched far past comfort. The silence alone was often enough to send Harvey spiraling, his shoulders shaking as the laughter took over.
Then there was the infamous “World’s Oldest Man.” Conway’s painfully slow, gravity-defying turn became a weapon of mass comedic destruction. The movement seemed endless, each second daring Harvey to survive just a little longer — and each second guaranteeing his defeat.
As Harvey struggled, the audience became part of the spectacle. Laughter erupted not just at Conway’s antics, but at the visible collapse happening in real time. The joy was multiplied by the knowledge that none of this had been planned.
Carol Burnett often stood nearby, watching the chaos unfold with a mix of disbelief and delight. She knew what the audience was witnessing was rare — comedy that couldn’t be manufactured, controlled, or repeated.
The brilliance lay in Conway’s restraint. He never pushed too hard. He let moments breathe, trusting that discomfort, anticipation, and absurdity would do the work for him. And they always did.
Harvey’s failure was never embarrassing — it was glorious. His laughter became the punchline, his inability to continue transforming each sketch into something greater than the script ever intended.
Years later, these moments endure not because they were polished, but because they were alive. As Carol Burnett famously said, you can’t rehearse magic like this — and Tim Conway proved it every time Harvey Korman tried, and failed, to hold it together.
