September has a way of shaking off the lazy, sun-soaked haze of summer and reminding us that television can be more than just background noise. The big summer shows have wrapped, the networks and streamers are rolling out their heaviest hitters, and suddenly there are more premieres than any human could possibly keep up with. Fall is, traditionally, the season when TV gets serious again, and this month is no exception. You’ll find no shortage of familiar intellectual property in the mix—reboots, sequels, spin-offs, and adaptations are everywhere—but there’s also a healthy dose of genuinely original storytelling that deserves a spot on your watchlist. The tricky part isn’t finding something to watch; it’s finding something that actually makes you think. That’s where WIRED tends to differ from the typical “stream these hot shows” roundup. We’re less interested in telling you what everyone else is already watching, like some muscle-bound thriller you keep hearing about in group chats, and more interested in the stories that speak to the way we actually live now: the technology we use, the science that shapes us, the political and cultural currents running underneath everything. The shows that excite us are the ones that explore those intersections, sometimes with a knowing wink, sometimes with a sense of dread, and sometimes with a lot of heart. This month, two new offerings stand out, and on the surface, they couldn’t be more different—one is a sharp workplace comedy about the future of local journalism, and the other is a goofy, animated Lego retelling of a beloved space western. But both are, in their own way, asking questions about storytelling, legacy, and what we choose to preserve.
The first show that deserves your attention is The Paper, a comedy that asks a deceptively simple question: what happens when a newspaper tries not just to survive, but to actually mean something again? In an age when digital media has flattened the old business models, when local newsrooms have been hollowed out by layoffs and mergers, and when everyone gets their headlines from social media, the idea of a struggling Midwestern paper trying to revive itself feels almost anachronistic. And yet, that’s exactly the setup. Created by Greg Daniels and Michael Koman, The Paper arrives as a kind of spiritual spin-off of The Office, with the same mockumentary style and the same willingness to find humor in awkward office dynamics. But instead of paper salesmen, we’re watching journalists. The Toledo Truth Teller is a scrappy, down-on-its-luck publication, and into this beleaguered newsroom walks Ned Sampson, a new editor-in-chief played with wonderfully earnest energy by Domhnall Gleeson. Ned is the kind of idealist who believes that journalism can change the world, or at least make a small city a little more honest. He’s joined by Mare Pritti, a hungry young reporter played by Chelsea Frei, who’s less interested in lofty ideals and more interested in getting the story, chasing the scoop, and maybe making a name for herself in a profession that no longer makes that easy. Together, they spend their days navigating the messy, often hilarious reality of what it means to put out a newspaper when no one can agree on what a newspaper should be. The show isn’t just a workplace sitcom; it’s a surprisingly tender exploration of the people who still believe in the power of a well-reported story, even when the world around them seems determined to prove them wrong.
Season 2 of The Paper landed on September 9, and it picks up with the Toledo Truth Teller in a better place than before. The paper has been revitalized, at least somewhat, and the newsroom is buzzing with the hunt for the next big scoop. But that sense of momentum comes with its own complications. Ned’s optimism is tested by the realities of the modern media landscape, where clicks can matter more than context, where newsroom budgets are always tight, and where the definition of “truth” has become a battleground. Mare, meanwhile, is trying to figure out what kind of journalist she wants to be—someone who reports the facts as they are, or someone who plays the game in order to matter. What makes The Paper so compelling is that it refuses to treat journalism as either a noble cause or a cynical joke. Instead, it treats it as a deeply human endeavor, full of conflicting motives, small victories, and occasional embarrassments. The humor comes from the characters, but the underlying tension is real. Local news is struggling everywhere, and the show taps into that anxiety without ever becoming preachy. It’s also genuinely funny in that uncomfortable, cringe-comedy way that fans of The Office will recognize immediately. There are meetings that spiral into chaos, rivalries between reporters who both think they deserve the front page, and the ever-present specter of a digital media ecosystem that doesn’t care about the Toledo Truth Teller’s legacy. But there’s also hope. The show celebrates the idea that local journalism still matters, that small papers still have a role to play in holding powerful people accountable, and that the future of news might not be as bleak as it seems if enough idealists and hungry young reporters are willing to fight for it. It’s a comedy, sure, but it’s also a love letter to the kind of journalism that gets written in cramped newsrooms on a deadline, fueled by bad coffee and stubborn conviction.
Then there’s the other side of the streaming universe, where one of the biggest franchises in pop culture is trying something unexpectedly playful. This summer, The Mandalorian and Grogu landed on Disney+ and, to put it mildly, it didn’t exactly set the box office on fire. The beloved bounty hunter, who first captured our hearts in his own live-action series, deserved better than the muted response he got. But rather than let the dust settle, Lucasfilm has teamed up with Lego to give the story a second life, and honestly, it might be exactly what the franchise needs right now. The result is a 49-minute animated comedy called Lego Star Wars: The Mandalorian, and it’s exactly as delightfully absurd as it sounds. The four-part special? Actually, this one compresses the entire epic saga—all three seasons of Pedro Pascal’s live-action series—into a single, fast-paced, brick-built adventure. It’s a condensed retelling that doesn’t take itself too seriously, which is precisely the point. Star Wars has always had a sense of humor woven into its DNA, but in recent years, some of that has gotten lost under the weight of lore, canon, and fan expectations. By stripping the story down to its essential beats and rebuilding it in Lego form, Lucasfilm is inviting us to remember why we fell in love with the galaxy far, far away in the first place: the adventure, the characters, and the fun.
Lego Star Wars: The Mandalorian isn’t trying to rewrite the story or add deep new layers to the mythology. Instead, it’s a loving, cheeky homage that understands the value of not taking everything so seriously. The animated format allows for visual gags and physical comedy that the live-action original never could have done, and the compression of three seasons into under an hour means every scene has to carry its weight. You get the essential Din Djarin moments—the solitude, the unexpected father-son bond with Grogu, the clashes with the remnants of the Empire—but all with a layer of brick-built whimsy. It’s the kind of project that might raise an eyebrow if you’re a purist, but it’s hard to argue with the results. In an era when every franchise is trying to be epic and important, Lego Star Wars: The Mandalorian reminds us that sometimes the best way to honor a story is to play with it. It’s also a smart move for Lucasfilm, which has been struggling to find its footing in a post-saga landscape. By partnering with Lego, they’re opening up the universe to a younger generation while also giving longtime fans something to laugh about together. The voice work is fun, the animation is bright and energetic, and the whole thing wraps up in a tight little package that feels less like a mandatory streaming obligation and more like a treat.
What ties these two very different shows together is the way they both use humor to tackle big questions about the world we live in. The Paper is, at its core, a show about the fate of truth in a digital age. It’s about the struggle to make journalism sustainable when the platforms that distribute it no longer reward depth, and about the very human impulse to tell stories that matter. Lego Star Wars: The Mandalorian, on the other hand, is about the fate of our favorite stories in an era of endless franchise expansion. It’s a playful reminder that the more we guard our beloved characters and universes, the less room we leave for joy. Both shows understand that we’re living through a period of massive transition—in media, in technology, in the way we consume culture—and both respond to that uncertainty with laughter rather than despair. That’s a big part of what makes them so appealing. They don’t offer easy answers, but they do offer a sense of perspective. They remind us that the things we value, whether it’s a local newspaper or a space-faring bounty hunter, are worth fighting for, even if the way we fight for them has to change. And they remind us that sometimes the best way to deal with a changing world is to find a reason to smile.
If you’re looking for something to stream this September, you could do a lot worse than pairing these two together. Start with The Paper if you want something grounded, thoughtful, and genuinely funny, a show that makes you think about where we get our news and why it matters. Then, when you need a palate cleanser, throw on Lego Star Wars: The Mandalorian and let yourself enjoy the silliness of it all. It’s a combination that works, not because the shows are similar, but because they both offer a version of hope. The Paper believes that truth can survive if enough people care enough to chase it. Lego Star Wars believes that our favorite stories can evolve, even become something new and ridiculous and fun, without losing their soul. In a television landscape that can feel overwhelming and exhausting, that’s exactly the kind of programming we need: stories that make us laugh, make us think, and remind us why we love watching in the first place. So clear some time this month, settle in, and give these shows the attention they deserve. You might just find that September is exactly when television gets serious again—and seriously enjoyable.
