For more than a decade, Tim Conway was not just a cast member on The Carol Burnett Show—he was its secret weapon. From 1967 to 1978, the show reigned as America’s most beloved sketch comedy series, long before the counterculture edge of Saturday Night Live redefined the format.
If Carol Burnett was the heart of the show, Conway was its mischievous pulse—the unpredictable force who could derail a scene with nothing more than a pause, a raised eyebrow, or a perfectly timed stammer.
When Conway passed away at 85, fans across generations felt the loss. For decades, he had seemed omnipresent: starring in films alongside Don Knotts, popping up in sitcoms, and, of course, anchoring some of the most legendary sketches in television history. Yet it is his eleven-year run on The Carol Burnett Show that remains the crown jewel of his career.
And thanks to streaming and online archives, a new generation is discovering what made him extraordinary.
The Genius of Playing It Straight—While Going Completely Off the Rails
Conway’s greatest strength wasn’t loudness. It wasn’t flashy punchlines. It was restraint.
He mastered the art of deadpan absurdity. His characters often seemed polite, mild-mannered, even slightly timid—until the situation spiraled into chaos. The humor didn’t come from obvious jokes; it came from commitment. Conway never winked at the audience. He believed in the ridiculousness.
And that belief made it contagious.
Working alongside Harvey Korman, Conway created one of television’s greatest comedy duos. Korman’s refined theatricality paired perfectly with Conway’s slow-burning unpredictability. Time and time again, Korman would break character—often unable to contain his laughter—while Conway stayed laser-focused, pushing the absurdity further.
The result? Comedy history.
“The Dentist”: Controlled Chaos at Its Finest
Among Conway’s most iconic sketches is “The Dentist.” The premise is simple: a nervous dentist on his first day treats a patient played by Korman.
But in Conway’s hands, simplicity became a masterpiece of escalation.
He begins as overly polite and awkward, trying to convince his patient that maybe the appointment isn’t necessary. Soon, he accidentally injects himself with Novocain. What follows is a slow unraveling of coordination and competence that turns into one of the most legendary physical comedy performances ever aired.
Every movement is deliberate. Every slurred word is measured. It’s not slapstick chaos—it’s calculated collapse.
Even decades later, it holds up flawlessly.
Physical Comedy Without Excess
Conway wasn’t just verbally sharp—he was a gifted physical comedian. In sketches like “Sleep No More My Lady,” where he attempts to quietly prepare breakfast, he demonstrates impeccable control over timing and movement. A simple task becomes a symphony of mishaps, each more disastrous than the last.
Yet what separates Conway from broader physical comedians is subtlety. He didn’t rely on exaggerated faces or wild gestures. Instead, he let small details—slight hesitations, carefully measured reactions—amplify the humor.
His performances were athletic without ever looking desperate.
The Art of the Slow Burn: “Airline Security”
In another standout sketch, Conway plays a painfully slow airline security guard opposite an increasingly irritated Korman. The humor unfolds at a glacial pace, building tension until the audience can’t take it anymore.
Stamping a ticket letter by letter. Asking the same question repeatedly. Misunderstanding basic instructions.
It’s the kind of humor that requires patience—and confidence. Conway trusted the silence. He trusted the audience. And he trusted that absurdity, when treated seriously, becomes explosive.
Mr. Tudball and Mrs. Wiggins: Chemistry That Couldn’t Be Scripted
While Carol Burnett herself was a towering comedic presence, Conway’s recurring character Mr. Tudball often stole the spotlight in sketches centered on Mrs. Wiggins, Burnett’s hilariously incompetent secretary.
As Tudball, Conway delivered exaggerated authority wrapped in total confusion. His thick accent, rigid posture, and mounting frustration turned routine office misunderstandings into comedic gold.
In “Mrs. Wiggins: The Vacation,” where he attempts to teach her blackjack before a Las Vegas trip, the humor comes not just from the jokes—but from the inevitability of failure. The audience knows it won’t go well. Conway knows it won’t go well. But Tudball never does.
That disconnect is the magic.
The Oldest Man: Ridiculous, Yet Somehow Real
Perhaps Conway’s most beloved recurring character was The Oldest Man—a centenarian whose frailty masked surprisingly chaotic behavior.
Whether serving as a sea captain or a courtroom witness, The Oldest Man shuffled slowly, spoke with deliberate effort, and then unleashed wildly unexpected physical antics. He would fall down stairs, crash into furniture, or take absurdly long pauses mid-sentence.
But here’s the genius: despite the broad physical comedy, Conway never turned him into a cartoon. There was nuance. There was commitment. The absurdity felt oddly grounded.
He didn’t mock the character. He inhabited him.
And that authenticity made even the wildest gags feel believable.
Breaking the Cast—and the Audience
One of the most beloved aspects of The Carol Burnett Show was the cast’s inability to keep straight faces. Long before viral blooper reels, audiences delighted in watching professionals crack under pressure.
Conway often instigated these moments intentionally. He would insert improvised lines or stretch out pauses far beyond rehearsal timing. Korman, especially, became his favorite target.
In sketches like “The Interrogator,” even seasoned performers like Lyle Waggoner struggled to maintain composure. But instead of ruining the scene, the breaking became part of the charm. It felt human. It felt live.
It felt joyful.
A Comedian for All Ages
Unlike many comedians who leaned into edginess or shock, Conway’s humor was universal. Children laughed at the physical mishaps. Adults appreciated the timing and craft.
He was a rare performer who could entertain across generations without compromising intelligence or warmth.
While sketch comedy has evolved dramatically since the 1970s, Conway’s work still resonates because it wasn’t anchored to trends. It was anchored to character.
Why His Work Still Matters
Today, in an era of rapid-fire punchlines and hyper-edited content, watching Tim Conway perform feels almost radical. He took his time. He built tension slowly. He trusted silence.
And most importantly, he treated comedy as an art form—not just a reaction.
His eleven years on The Carol Burnett Show represent more than nostalgia. They represent a master class in timing, collaboration, and fearless absurdity. Working alongside Carol Burnett, Harvey Korman, Vicki Lawrence, and Lyle Waggoner, Conway helped define an era of television that valued ensemble chemistry over ego.
He made the ridiculous feel normal. He made chaos feel controlled. And he made millions laugh without ever seeming to try too hard.
That effortless illusion may have been his greatest trick of all.
As new audiences discover those classic sketches online, one thing becomes clear: Tim Conway wasn’t just part of television history.
He shaped it.