“They tried to stay in character… but comedy had other plans.”
That’s how many fans still describe the legendary on-air unravelings between Tim Conway and Harvey Korman. What began as straightforward sketches on The Carol Burnett Show often turned into something far more memorable — not because of elaborate punchlines, but because of timing so sharp it felt dangerous.
Conway never chased the laugh. He slowed things down. Softened his voice. Added one tiny, absurd detail that tilted the scene just slightly off balance. It didn’t look like sabotage. It looked innocent. And that’s what made it lethal.
Harvey Korman, consummate professional, would sense it happening in real time. You can see the exact second it clicks — the tightening jaw, the pressed lips, the desperate attempt to hold eye contact without collapsing. He knew the battle had begun.
But Conway always had one more pause. One more sideways glance. One more perfectly measured detour from the script.
What made their dynamic electric wasn’t forced chaos or exaggerated slapstick. It was contrast. Conway, calm and deliberate. Korman, dignified and determined. One gently pulling the thread, the other trying to keep the fabric from unraveling.
And then comes the moment viewers still replay decades later — the surrender. Korman’s composure cracks. His shoulders shake. The laugh escapes despite every effort to contain it. The audience erupts because they know they’re witnessing something unscripted and completely alive.
The script becomes irrelevant. The scene transforms. What started as a routine setup turns into pure, unfiltered comedy history.
It’s the kind of magic that can’t be manufactured. No retakes. No edits. Just two masters reacting to each other in real time, trusting that the fall would be just as funny as the line.
That’s why those clips still circulate today. Not because they were polished — but because they weren’t.
They tried to stay in character.
But comedy had other plans.
