I moved to London in 1984. Despite being almost 40 years after VE Day, the place remained squashed in the deflated brownout of that make-do-and-mend era. To an American whose imperfect grasp on the national psyche was based on repeated spins of Jethro Tull’s cynical masterwork, Aqualung, as well as the sadistic interpersonal relationships at the heart of great British films like The Servant and The Red Shoes, I was excited by the seedy ennui of this world capital. Even its dangers were enervated: the bowler-hatted curb crawlers in Grosvenor Square; the cheap thrill of falling off the back of...