Plenty of television shows, from the most exalted prestige works to the trashiest popcorn cheese, have established elements to thrive on. Be it a character, or a premise or a general mood, every good or great series has at least one thing to hang the rest of the enterprise on. Perhaps it’s the ability to shock viewers, or perhaps it’s a group dynamic that reflects the authenticity of audience’s own friend group. The show might be funny or dramatic or tense or soothing, but any program worth loving offers something of value on a consistent basis (even if that something is fascinating inconsistency). Many of the very best shows, however, are able to capture dozens of these pieces, mold them with ease and produce a work that defies labels and exceeds expectations.

We, as a culture, often reserve this pantheon for those weightier pieces often defined by anti-heroes and entangled moral codes. That strict definition is slipping away (look at the flaccid reception for HBO Bad Man photo-copy of a photo-copy Vinyl), but there’s still some degree of assumption about what these series, the best of the best, look and feel like. They don’t often resemble a measured and self-aware spin on the telenovela genre. But they should. With its latest episode, “Chapter Thirty-Four”, Jane the Virgin has firmly and rightfully earned its place among the master-class of television series. It doesn’t need a medal or official announcement, but I’d like to give it one anyway.

Jane the Virgin began auspiciously, with billboards teasing what appeared to be an overbearing and witless mess with a name to match. Of course, those eccentric elements are present but what the early advertisements couldn’t express is just how well balanced the insanity was with the nuance. And the name, at first an apparent deterrent, has become the key to unlocking the entire point. Jane Gloriana Villanueva (Gina Rodriguez) is much more than the title expresses, to be sure. But it succinctly and accurately captures the blaring purity of the show: Jane the Virgin has both outgrown and encapsulated its name.

In “Chapter Thirty-Four”, this titular descriptor rears its head at the most inopportune of times for Jane. She’s recently fallen for her ex-professor, and made the decision to part with her virginity. For those unfamiliar with the series, this carries more weight than just a religious vow: her grandmother Alba (Ivonna Coll) requested a promise from Jane in her youth to wait for marriage. As has been celebrated before, the speech and subsequent decision are never viewed as a joke or looked down upon. Neither, however, is Jane’s mother Xiomara’s (Andrea Navedo) teenage pregnancy. Judgment in the world of Jane the Virgin is reserved for those who seek to do harm without remorse.

This side of the episode, having Jane grapple with the monumental decision while keeping her conflict hidden from Alba, brings about what might be the series’ best quality. The Villanueva women are one of the most grounded and understandable families ever seen on television. When they squabble, the pain comes from those deep connections. Each actress is brilliant, creating rounded individuals whose butting heads always come from a place of authenticity. These women rarely see the world in the same way, but they manage to convey their differences in the way actual families do. Sometimes that is more aggressive, and the results are heartbreaking. More often, episodes feature at least one scene of unadulterated bonding. Seeing Jane, Xo and Alba laugh together is one of the purest pleasures ever viewed on a TV screen.

Sentiment arrives in another manner as well, just as often and nearly as effectively. Romance is central to the narrative of Jane the Virgin as evidenced by both the title and genre its indebted to. For much of the season-and-a-half so far, Jane has been torn between two love interests. You may have seen them in hashtag form on social media. There’s Michael (Brett Dier), her ex-fiancée who works as a police officer (and is this writer’s personal #Team). Then there’s Rafael (Justin Baldoni), the hotel owning ex-playboy whose sperm accidently inseminated Jane. They keenly represent two entirely different paths: quiet stability and adventurous luxury. Yet neither has ever been painted entirely as a villain, even in their lowest moments. Much like it is for the familial plots, Jane the Virgin is obsessed with empathetic understanding of each point of view. That not only makes it a more human show: it makes it more passionate as well.

In any romantic comedy or drama (and Jane the Virgin is both, often and nimbly so), when the love triangle is one-sided nothing feels organic. Not only are Michael and Rafael both suitable partners: it would make just as much sense for Jane to leave them both for somebody else or for nobody at all. That extends to Xo’s relationship with Jane’s father Rogelio (Jaime Camil), and other brief trysts supporting characters have entered into. Every door always feels open, which makes each decision crucial and powerful. That’s important for a long-running series: Jane has already alternated between the two half a dozen times, and “Chapter Thirty-Four” added yet another twist to the pile. But when so much care is invested in the people making the choices, it doesn’t feel like trite rehash. Instead it comes across as the way life is actually lived, or would actually be lived if one entered into this exaggerated universe. People do find themselves orbiting around others, because of connections both tenuous and meaningful. There are hands you continue to grasp for long after they’ve departed. Even if life doesn’t actually happen this precise way, Jane the Virgin makes the emotions underlying the pairings aching and true.

That extends to yet another tool in the series’ arsenal: heightened storytelling stuffed full of twists and unexpected detours. Plot often takes a backseat to character development in the best of shows, or at least it rarely fires on as many cylinders as Jane the Virgin has. Here, the villains are toxic (until they’re humanized), the turns are mind-boggling (until they’re effectively and cleverly explained) and each action has an eventual consequence. Some cliffhangers are left dangling for large chunks of time, but they nearly always solidify into something meaningful for the characters and their personal journeys. That aforementioned emotional depth isn’t a separate entity from the stuffed plotting. Instead they work in tandem to create moments singularly moving and shocking all at once. “Chapter Thirty-Four” delivers that in spades, culminating in a series of twists that eventually lead to a depressing fallout and further questions for the future. To manage this for one season would be exceptional: that Jane the Virgin continues to churn through story thirty-four hours in speaks to the way that surprise always works better when filtered through those affected by the aftershocks.

You know what else helps? Jokes! In-between the revelations and the break-ups, Jane the Virgin is as funny as it is warm. Much of the humor comes from the narrator (voiced by Anthony Mendez), who is given a real workout in “Chapter Thirty-Four”. At times he’s used as tool for building action (as he is in this particular hour), but just as often he’s a device for tremendous humor that builds the world without ever taking the viewer out. That’s difficult to manage with omnipresent narration, but it perfectly walks the line between observant commentary and humorous investment. Nothing, however, matches the comedic whirlwind that is Rogelio de la Vega. Camil is absolutely brilliant in a performance that has deepened tremendously over time but never lost the central spark he infused from the word go. Rogelio’s ego is at times a punching bag, but one hit delicately and with clear affection. It’s among the funniest performances on television, one rooted in both specificity and broad hysterics.

Yet for as much as Camil and Mendez offer, others in the cast are too often forgotten when discussing comedic chops. Coll occasionally brings out a glorious deadpan in Alba, matched by the mischievous whims of Navedo’s Xo. Best of all, Rodriguez has a handle on a number of different comedy styles, from brief forays in slapstick to constant facial expressions that bend and whip around whomever else is in the scene. As a lead character, Jane is a powerful emotional center. As a reaction shot, Rodriguez is a master of the raised eyebrow.

And all of these abilities would mean significantly less without the distinct visual palate Jane the Virgin has perfected over the episodes. In “Chapter Thirty-Four”, the screen grows pink whenever Jane risks romanticizing a moment. The color fades when the mood dies. The visual motif of flowers are reinterpreted and subverted throughout the hour. And these don’t even rank among the show’s most effective flourishes, which include an alternate version of Jane speaking to herself and a wrestling match-style intro for each character. Much like the use of narrative pretzel-making, this humor is instilled with the gentle humanity and pervasive insight that supports the overall purpose of the show.

That purpose is a clear effort to capture the entire gamut of human experience. Parenthood, childhood, sex, love, family, broken hearts, business dealings, crime and countless other topics are given thoughtful treatment by the series. Most importantly, the show understands that each of these portions of the world is different and must be viewed through a unique lens. That doesn’t mean that unification is out of the question: somehow, despite all of these shifting gears Jane the Virgin rarely feels messy. Instead, by combining each skill from humor to plotting to poignant resonance the series has catapulted itself to the very highest ranks of television. Plenty of shows do some things well. Jane the Virgin does them all, with a firm smile and a heart on its sleeve. The face of great, vital television doesn’t belong to a nihilistic white man in a suit at the moment. For now it belongs to a young Latino woman who loves and cares about family, religion and herself. How’s that for a twist?