Two minutes on the clock.
A device ticking down.
A room thick with tension.
And then… he walks in.
Not with urgency.
Not with purpose.
But with the impossibly slow shuffle of “The Oldest Man,” a character so deliberate it feels like gravity itself is negotiating every step.
What follows on The Carol Burnett Show isn’t just a sketch. It’s one of the most iconic moments in television comedy history — a perfectly executed slow burn that transformed a simple countdown gag into a masterclass in timing, restraint, and controlled chaos.
The Setup: Pressure, Panic, and a Ticking Clock
The premise is deceptively simple. A device is set. The countdown begins. There are two minutes to disarm it. Instructions are barked out urgently. The stakes — at least within the logic of the sketch — couldn’t be higher.
Harvey Korman plays it straight. Completely straight.
His character is frantic, sweating, commanding, desperate for action. Every second matters. Every tick grows louder in the audience’s imagination. The energy builds exactly as it should in a high-stakes television moment.
And then enters Tim Conway.
Not rushing.
Not reacting to the panic.
Just… moving.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
The Power of the Shuffle
Conway’s “Oldest Man” character doesn’t just walk — he negotiates with time. Each tiny step stretches the moment further. The tension doesn’t break; it tightens. The audience starts laughing early, because they see what’s happening.
They know he’s not going to hurry.
And that’s the brilliance.
In most comedy, speed is the weapon. Punchlines land fast. Reactions snap back. Chaos erupts instantly. But Conway understood something deeper: anticipation is funnier than explosion.
By refusing to move at the pace the scene demands, he turns the delay itself into the joke.
Harvey Korman’s panic escalates. His voice rises. His face tightens. He pleads. He commands. He begs.
And Conway shuffles.
The Pocket Reveal: Absurdity at Its Peak
Just when you think he might finally produce the necessary tool to save the day, Conway reaches into his pocket.
This is the moment the audience collectively leans forward.
Surely now.
Surely he has what they need.
Out comes… a ham sandwich.
The laughter detonates.
Back into the pocket.
A rubber mouse.
The studio begins to lose control.
And then, perhaps the most devastating visual gag of all: glasses worn completely upside down.
By this point, the tension has mutated into absurdity. The logic of the sketch has collapsed under the weight of Conway’s commitment to the bit.
And Harvey Korman?
He’s finished.
Bright red. Gasping. Fighting to maintain composure — and clearly losing.
The Art of Breaking — Without Breaking the Scene
One of the reasons this sketch remains legendary isn’t just Conway’s performance. It’s the visible battle happening beside him.
Harvey Korman tries to stay in character. He tries to deliver lines. He tries to hold the tension.
But Conway keeps stretching the elastic band further and further until it snaps.
And when it snaps, it snaps beautifully.
Korman’s near-breaks — the trembling lips, the suppressed laughter, the turning away from camera — become part of the comedy itself. The audience isn’t just laughing at the situation anymore. They’re laughing at the human impossibility of staying serious in the face of such perfectly measured nonsense.
The result feels spontaneous, even though it’s built on precise timing.
The Slow Descent of the Pliers
As the timer nears zero, the pliers finally emerge.
They rise.
They shake.
They hover.
And then they begin their descent — inch by agonizing inch.
Every movement is microscopic. Every pause feels intentional. The tension becomes unbearable.
The countdown device is almost irrelevant now. The real countdown is the audience’s ability to contain their laughter.
By the time the pliers approach their target, the room is shaking. Korman is undone. The audience is breathless.
And somehow, the scene feels bigger than a sketch. It feels like a live experiment in how far timing can be pushed before reality cracks.
Why This Moment Changed Television Comedy
Television in the 1970s thrived on ensemble chemistry, but what made Tim Conway extraordinary was his ability to weaponize patience.
He trusted silence.
He trusted delay.
He trusted the audience to stay with him.
And alongside him, Harvey Korman provided the perfect counterbalance — disciplined, reactive, desperately trying to maintain order as chaos bloomed beside him.
The sketch proved something essential about comedy: tension isn’t the opposite of laughter. It’s the fuel for it.
The countdown device was only bait.
The real explosion was laughter.
A Masterclass in Escalation
What makes this scene endure decades later is its structure.
-
Establish urgency.
-
Introduce delay.
-
Escalate absurdity.
-
Prolong resolution.
-
Let the performers crack.
Each step builds naturally into the next. Nothing feels random. Even the pocket gags — the sandwich, the rubber mouse, the upside-down glasses — follow a rhythm of increasing ridiculousness.
It’s controlled chaos.
There are no special effects. No rapid cuts. No dramatic music cues guiding the audience. Just two performers, a ticking clock, and impeccable timing.
In an era before viral clips and social media replays, this sketch became the kind of moment people described to friends the next day at work. It lived in memory because it felt impossible — like watching someone stretch time with their bare hands.
Why It Still Gets Funnier
The strange magic of this scene is that it doesn’t lose its impact with repeat viewings. In fact, it often gets funnier.
Why?
Because you begin to notice the layers:
-
The micro-pauses before each reveal.
-
The barely controlled shaking of Korman’s shoulders.
-
The way Conway holds a beat just one second longer than comfort allows.
-
The audience’s laughter building in waves rather than bursts.
It’s precision disguised as chaos.
Even now, decades later, viewers who stumble upon the clip for the first time often react the same way: disbelief that something so simple could generate so much laughter.
And those who’ve seen it before? They watch again — knowing exactly what’s coming — and still laugh just as hard.
The Legacy of a Perfect Slow Burn
Comedy evolves. Formats change. Sketch shows come and go. But moments like this remain timeless because they aren’t dependent on cultural references or topical jokes.
They’re built on human reaction.
On tension.
On surprise.
On the contagious sound of someone trying — and failing — not to laugh.
In two minutes of fictional urgency, Tim Conway demonstrated something profound: sometimes the funniest thing you can do is refuse to hurry.
The device was ticking.
The panic was real.
The pressure was immense.
And he chose to shuffle.
That choice didn’t just create a memorable sketch. It created one of television’s purest examples of comic mastery — a reminder that timing isn’t about speed.
It’s about knowing exactly how long the world can hold its breath before it bursts into laughter.