Tim Conway’s Slow-Motion Madness: The Sketch That Completely Destroyed Harvey Korman and Made Comedy History
“I SWEAR, HE’S TRYING TO K.I.L.L ME.” Harvey Korman could barely choke those words out, already folding in half as uncontrollable laughter took over. It was the kind of line that wasn’t scripted, wasn’t planned, and wasn’t rehearsed — it was survival. Because when Tim Conway slipped into The Oldest Man, every person on that stage understood they were about to be pushed past their limit.
The moment Conway appeared in that ancient shuffle, the sketch’s fate was sealed. His posture alone — bent, deliberate, almost fossilized — warned everyone watching that time itself was about to slow down. Korman, already bracing for disaster, tried to maintain composure, but Conway’s glacial pace made that impossible before the bit had even begun.
As The Oldest Man’s Captain, Conway didn’t move across the ship’s deck; he drifted like a drifting glacier. Each microscopic shift of his foot seemed engineered to test human patience and human endurance. The crowd sensed exactly what was happening, and they leaned in, waiting for the inevitable moment when Korman would crack.
When Conway reached for the ship’s wheel — at a speed so slow it practically mocked physics — the entire studio fractured. Korman broke first, as always. His face twisted, his shoulders shook, and the laughter that burst out of him wasn’t just amusement; it was surrender. The audience followed instantly, unable to believe what they were witnessing.
But Conway wasn’t done. Not even close. Every blink felt like it took a full minute. Every stumble appeared to be happening in geological time. He weaponized hesitation, using silence and delay the way most comedians use punchlines. The longer he waited, the louder the room erupted.
Korman tried to maintain some semblance of professionalism, but the effort was hopeless. You could see him bite his lip, pinch his eyes shut, and attempt deep breathing — all in vain. Conway kept pushing him, step by excruciating step, until Korman was gasping for air, tears streaking his cheeks.
Even the crew behind the cameras could barely function. You could hear muffled laughter, see shaking shoulders, catch glimpses of people trying to hide behind props just to avoid ruining the take. Conway’s slow-motion routine didn’t just break the cast; it paralyzed the entire production.
At one point, Conway extended a single hand toward Korman, fingers inching forward at a rate so agonizingly slow it bordered on supernatural. Korman’s reaction was instantaneous: a full-body collapse into helpless laughter. He covered his face, spun away, tried to regroup — but he was already defeated.
Conway’s control over the room was absolute. He would pause just long enough for the laughter to begin dying down… then move one inch, one breath, one frozen gesture, and the entire studio exploded again. It was a masterclass in comedic timing without ever delivering a traditional joke.
Korman’s attempts to stay in character became their own form of comedy. His shaking shoulders, his watery eyes, his visible struggle to hold himself upright — everything about his collapse fueled the sketch’s chaotic brilliance. It was comedic torture disguised as slapstick elegance.
As Conway inched across the deck, he kept escalating the bit without saying a single word. A dragged foot, a tilted head, a delayed reaction — each one operated like a new layer of mischief designed specifically to dismantle Korman from the inside out.
The audience, sensing that they were witnessing something historic, gave in to the ride completely. Every pause earned a roar. Every movement, no matter how tiny, created a chain reaction of laughter that rolled across the studio like a tidal wave.
By the time Conway finally reached his mark, the sketch had dissolved into beautiful chaos. Korman was hanging onto the set for support, every attempt at seriousness abandoned long ago. Conway, meanwhile, maintained his ancient pace with perfect commitment, a professional surrounded by total comedic destruction.
This wasn’t just a bit from The Carol Burnett Show. It was an endurance test, a perfectly orchestrated demolition of everyone’s self-control. It cemented Tim Conway as a master of slow-motion madness — and Harvey Korman as the poor soul destined to fall apart beside him every single time.
To watch it today is to relive that glorious collapse. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, no matter how prepared you think you are, Conway’s glacial movements still manage to break you. It remains one of the greatest examples of comedic chaos ever captured on television.
