It’s hard not to believe that Tim Conway had a lifelong mission: slowly, delicately, and beautifully dismantle Harvey Korman one microscopic shuffle at a time. Not with volume. Not with aggression. But with the calm precision of a man who understood that patience, applied correctly, is more devastating than any punchline.
Conway never rushed a joke. He drifted into it. One blink. One inch. One agonizingly careful reach for a prop — and Korman was already on the brink. You could see the breakdown begin in stages: shoulders tightening, jaw clenching, eyes glazing as he fought to stay upright while Conway looked like he was deciding between tea or coffee.
What made it lethal was the restraint. Conway’s comedy was surgical. Every pause became a trap. Every silence, a setup. Every tiny movement added another psychological tap on Korman’s composure. The audience would vanish into laughter. The cast would surrender. Even the crew behind the cameras could be seen shaking. And Harvey? He was trapped in the politest nightmare imaginable — trying to remain professional while his soul actively evacuated his body.
Watching Conway work was like witnessing a masterclass in turning nothing into everything. He weaponized stillness. He turned slowness into pressure. He proved that the absence of action, when perfectly timed, can be funnier than any scripted gag.
Korman, a consummate professional with impeccable timing himself, was the perfect foil. His sincerity, his commitment to the scene, and his desperate attempts to push through only made Conway’s choices more catastrophic. The harder Harvey tried to survive, the funnier Conway became.
Fans of The Carol Burnett Show know these moments well. They weren’t accidents. They were controlled demolitions carried out with a straight face and impeccable instincts by Tim Conway.
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And here’s the detail that fans love most. According to behind-the-scenes stories, Conway never warned Harvey Korman about the shuffle. No rehearsal hint. No quiet aside. No mercy. He simply decided, in the moment, to go that slow.
That means every wheeze, every breakdown, every desperate gasp from Korman was real. Completely unplanned. Completely helpless. And completely unforgettable.
It’s why these sketches still circulate decades later. You can’t recreate that kind of comedy. You can’t rehearse it. You can’t fake it. It only happens when one master commits to patience and another is brave enough to try — and fail — to survive it.
Tim Conway didn’t just break Harvey Korman for laughs. He showed the world that sometimes the most dangerous thing on stage isn’t noise or chaos — it’s a man moving slowly, smiling politely, and knowing exactly what he’s doing.
